


Dredged Up Secrets, Starry Nights

by queerofthedagger



Series: Merlin Stories [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Needs a Hug (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Court Sorcerer Merlin (Merlin), Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Revealed, References to Greek Mythologie (kind of), Season/Series 04, Truth Spells, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/pseuds/queerofthedagger
Summary: What starts with a bit of over-protectiveness after nearly losing Merlin in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, ends with being hunted through the woods by a sorceress—because of course it does. While the witch claims to have no intention of hurting them, Arthur would like to disagree, seeing that he ends up spilling secrets that cause exactly as much damage as he expected.At least that's what it looks like, right up until Merlin reveals secrets of his own. What follows is a struggle with both his own convictions and a traitor at court, and something that involves Greek heroes, winter nights, a dragon, and a better outcome than either of them would've dared to hope for.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin Stories [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728040
Comments: 67
Kudos: 435
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donttellauntmay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttellauntmay/gifts).



> Dear donttellauntmay, I was hyped when I got your assignment, and I tried to include as many of your prompts as possible. I hope that you like what came out of it, and that you're having a great holiday season! ❤️
> 
> Many thanks to the mods for organizing this fantastic fest, and to [Ing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingberry/pseuds/ingberry) for the quick beta. All remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> This is set in that undefined amount of time between "A Servant of Two Masters," and "The Secret Sharer."
> 
> Please do not repost my work anywhere or list it on goodreads (or similar sites).

“This is all your fault,” Merlin pants, and of course he’d still complain even as he’s running from danger and struggling for air.

Arthur huffs an annoyed breath and grabs Merlin’s wrist more tightly, dragging him along. “Shut up and _run_ , you idiot.”

As far as he’s concerned, this is all Gwaine’s fault, and he doesn’t appreciate that Merlin seems to confuse this rather important fact. Not that Arthur would explain how he got to this conclusion if his life depended on it, since it was built on concern and jealousy.

They’re racing through the underbrush, branches hitting Arthur in the face, but all he can focus on is keeping Merlin close to him, to keep a secure hold on him and make sure he doesn’t stumble.

His legs are burning from the strain, his tunic is sticking uncomfortably to his back underneath his chainmail despite the biting autumn air, and all Arthur’s aware of is the stretch of warm skin underneath his fingertips. The burning need to keep Merlin safe, at all costs, to not repeat anything like what happened only a few weeks ago.

The repeated thought of, I can’t lose him, not again, not again, _not again_ —

“Arthur. Arthur, _stop_ ,” Merlin finally chokes out, digging his heels in and forcing Arthur to come to a halt as well.

Before he can snap, Merlin raises a hand and tilts his head, clearly listening for noises from the forest.

It takes Arthur a moment to be able to pay attention to anything through the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears, but then he notices the silence.

Too much silence. There are no sounds—no birds, no rustling of leaves, and the realisation has barely sunken in when tinkling laughter sounds from behind them.

They both whirl around, and there’s a brief scuffle during which Arthur tries to shove Merlin behind himself while the idiot tries doing the same. What Merlin thinks he would accomplish, with only his bag of herbs, Arthur will never know, but underneath all the exasperation and worry, there’s a glimmer of hopeless affection at the gesture.

Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t have time to inspect that too closely. The witch they’ve been running from takes a few steps closer, her eyes roaming curiously over both of them.

“Did you think you could just run from me?” she finally asks, amusement clear in her voice, and Arthur grits his teeth, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword. “I would’ve expected that at least you would know better,” she adds, raising a mocking brow at Merlin.

“I won’t let you touch him,” Merlin snarls, and Arthur’s arm flies out to hold him back from stepping forward.

One day, they really need to have a conversation about Merlin’s self-sacrificing tendencies.

“Oh don’t worry, I have no intention to hurt him,” the witch says, her mouth curling into a smirk that’s at odds with her words.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Arthur growls, raising his sword as she takes another few steps closer. “All that chasing us through the forest after nearly dropping a tree on us—“

“An accident,” she interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. Merlin twitches behind him.

This is becoming increasingly frustrating, and he just knows that if something doesn’t give, and soon, Merlin will do something tremendously stupid.

Carefully shifting his weight, he waits until the sorceress fixes her gaze on Merlin once more.

“I merely want to help,” she says, still smiling that infuriating, pretentiously enigmatic smile. “You know, Emrys—“

Arthur lunges, and the world goes dark.

* * *

“You complete, utter _clotpole_ ,” is what Arthur’s greeted with when he blinks his eyes open.

Merlin’s face is hovering above him, and Arthur can make out the indistinct shape of trees behind him. A fire is crackling to his side, the flames throwing shadows over Merlin’s face, breaking on his cheekbones and letting his eyes glow.

The sight is doing _things_ to Arthur’s heart, and he quickly averts his gaze, trying to sit up.

“Careful,” Merlin says, his hands lingering on Arthur’s shoulders. “I think you’ve hit your head pretty badly.”

As if only waiting for Merlin to point it out, a flash of pain shoots from his temple to his neck, and Arthur bites back a hiss. “What happened?” he asks when he finally manages to pull himself up into a sitting position, and gratefully takes the waterskin Merlin offers him.

“You were an idiot, that’s what happened,” Merlin says, his voice tense as he sits down across from Arthur. “One would think that you’d know by now that attacking a sorceress with a sword rarely goes over well.”

Right, that’s what happened, though it doesn’t explain how either of them is still alive or where said sorceress has disappeared to.

Arthur means to ask after that, he really does, but what comes out of his mouth is, “I couldn’t risk her hurting you.”

He’s not sure who’s more shocked, and maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. “What happened after she knocked me out?” he asks, watching as a faint flush creeps over Merlin’s cheeks.

It’s not like Arthur principally hates the idea of Merlin knowing that he cares about him; in all honesty, he’s pretty sure the ship of denying their friendship has long since sailed. It’s more the fear of how close that truth is to another one, one that he intends to carry to his grave at all costs.

For a few beats, Merlin stares at him, lips parted slightly, but Arthur must have some luck left on this cursed day because eventually, Merlin draws a deep breath and shakes himself out of his daze. His expression twists with obvious concern, sowing apprehension in Arthur’s stomach and leaving his fingers twitching with the urge to wipe it away.

“After she knocked you into a tree because _you’re an idiot_ ,” Merlin starts, somehow throwing him a pointed glare through the concern, “she froze me in place and cast some kind of spell on you. Then she vanished.”

Arthur’s heart sinks so fast, he feels light-headed with it. “And you didn’t think I could be dangerous to you upon waking up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Merlin scoffs. He’s not sure if he should be touched or insulted. “It’s also not the point. Do you feel any different?”

Taking a moment to actually consider it, to flex his fingers and stretch out his legs while ignoring the faint pounding behind his temples, Arthur eventually shakes his head. “Nothing but a headache and relief that you’re alright.”

And maybe a weird loss of his general brain-to-mouth filter, which is worrying, considering that there are several things he absolutely doesn’t want to speak out loud. It’s not like he can tell Merlin that, though; it would involve explaining _why_ , which is only going to lead to more questions, and Merlin’s already frowning like he’s not convinced either.

“So, she just left? Doesn’t make much sense if you think about it, does it?”

“We don’t know what she cast on you, Arthur.”

“I don’t _care_.”

Merlin’s eyes widen and his hands still in their restless fidgeting with his sleeves. “Why wouldn’t you care?”

“Because I’d rather be cursed a hundred times over if it means that nothing happens to you. I nearly lost you once already, and after—“ He breaks off, biting down on his tongue. Tries to keep the words that want to come forward locked behind his teeth, his nails digging into his palms, but it’s like he has lost all control over his tongue. “And after my father’s death, I think it would break me to lose you too.”

Silence follows his proclamation, only the blood rushing in his ears and the distant sounds of the forest trying to drown out the cacophony of voices in his own head. He averts his eyes, staring into the flames while he tries to keep his face blank. If nothing else, he can at least pretend that he meant to say this.

“ _Arthur_ —“ Merlin starts, but he seemingly doesn’t know what to say either and isn’t that ironic. After another, long pause, Merlin’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Arthur has to suppress a shiver at the warmth seeping through his tunic.

He’s not sure when he lost his chainmail, but he refuses to let his mind go to the image of Merlin taking it off him when he was unconscious.

“You won’t lose me,” Merlin finally says, and his voice is softer now, deeper and reassuring in a way that makes Arthur want to believe him despite the unlikeliness of it. “I promise.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches and his heart is beating so frantically in his chest that he thinks Merlin must be able to hear it.

Merlin’s fingers tighten on his shoulders until Arthur can’t help but glance at him. They’re closer than he expected, and Merlin’s eyes are so full of warmth and fondness that his breath catches in his throat.

This is quickly turning out worse than any possible magical attack, and it’s all because Arthur can’t bring himself to let Merlin out of the castle on his own after what happened in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.

Well, and because of Gwaine. Because Gwaine’s always a little too quick to offer his company whenever Merlin has to gather herbs for Gaius, and Arthur is a ridiculous fool who doesn’t get anything done when the two of them disappear for hours on end.

“I’ve stuck around for this long, haven’t I?” Merlin says quietly, a smile curling the corner of his mouth.

Arthur wants to trace it with his thumb, commit it to memory for all the times when it’s twisted into a worried frown, or pursed into a thin line of annoyance. It’s happening all too often these days.

“We’ve faced far worse than this, and we always made it out on top. Maybe if you stopped trying to run head-first into danger, the chances might even heighten. But either way, I promise you won’t get rid of me, even if you only ever admit that we’re friends when you think we’re about to die.”

There’s laughter bubbling up in Arthur’s chest, but it comes out a bit wet and an on the edge of hysterical. “You’re an idiot,” he says because he has to, has to somehow steer them back to familiar grounds. Has to get rid of the tight, terrified knot that’s taken root in his chest at how desperately another confession wants to make it out from behind his ribs.

Merlin grins, his cheeks dimpling and his hand sliding from Arthur’s shoulder to his forearm. “You’d be lost without me, admit it.”

“I would be,” Arthur agrees, and he can feel his cheeks heating. “I wouldn’t have made it through these last few months without you, and to be quite honest, you’re much more than a friend.”

There’s a strange buzzing noise in his ears, and he has to clench his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Something’s happening to him, something he doesn’t have any control over. Because while one slip could be easily brushed away as a result from the hit he took, and two might be a strange coincidence to be blamed on shock, this is definitely not normal anymore.

Arthur has years of experience in not saying what he shouldn’t say, more than is probably healthy for someone of his age, and he has even more experience in not saying certain things to _Merlin_.

And while Arthur may not know much about magic, he suddenly remembers with startling clarity that there _has_ been a spell cast on him. The intent might not have been for him to spill his heart to his manservant—most people would probably assume that a king has much more important secrets to hide, even though Arthur’s not sure where _‘keeping my feelings for Merlin a secret’_ would fall on his list of things he should not, under any circumstances, reveal to anyone—but it would be a disastrous side-effect nonetheless.

Because Merlin’s his friend, the first actual friend he’s ever had, and Arthur’s not lying when he says that he’d be lost without him. He can’t risk it. Because he doesn’t think it’s that hard to miss if one looks for it, and still, he’s quite sure that Merlin’s always keeping a deliberate distance between them. Always deflecting and side-stepping and keeping Arthur at arms-length in a way he’s never done with Lancelot.

Because Arthur’s more than aware that it would put pressure on Merlin, considering their positions, and that he’s already asking much more of Merlin than could ever be justifiable.

Because, and that’s perhaps the crux of it, if Merlin felt the same, Arthur’s pretty sure he would’ve let it on by now.

Through his racing thoughts, he barely catches the shock on Merlin’s face, the way his shoulders stiffen and his fingers tighten around Arthur’s wrist before falling away. He’s just thinking that he should tell Merlin about his theory, and soon, when Merlin asks, “What do you mean?”

“I—“ Arthur bites down on his lip, hard, but the words are burning on his tongue, tearing at his throat. “I’ve been in love with you for ages, you idiot. I don’t know how that’s not obvious, how you could’ve possibly missed it, even though I never meant to tell you because you clearly don’t feel the same. And it’s alright—really, it is, you’re doing so much more for me than I could ever expect, and I just want you to be happy.”

He has to draw a breath and briefly contemplates making a run for it. His limbs feel like lead though, his head pounding, and if he doesn’t intend abandoning Camelot for the idea of becoming a farmer—without Merlin—it’s probably too late to salvage any of this anyway.

“I just sometimes wish—I wish it could be different. That I wouldn’t have to watch you fool around with Gwaine or evade your questions about why I’m so averse to marrying anyone before even meeting them. That I wouldn’t have to pretend that you don’t matter to me as much as you do because—gods.” He huffs out a choked laugh, pressing his knuckles against his eyes.

Despite the terror thrumming through his veins, there’s something freeing about letting it all out, and he stops fighting against the words. “I’d give up my kingdom if only it made you happy, and I’m never sure if you’re really so bloody oblivious that you don’t know, or if you’re merely ignoring it in an attempt to let me down gently. But what it boils down to is that my life wouldn’t be half as good without you, I wouldn’t be nearly the man I am, and quite honestly, not being able to wake up next to you is one of the worst things regardless of you being there each morning.”

His cheeks are burning, and he keeps his eyes stubbornly fixed on the ground in front of him. Silence settles over them, and he’s not sure what he expected, has never considered finding himself in this situation, forced to reveal one of his deepest secrets against his will, but he thinks some answer, any answer at all is not too much to ask for.

Hell, he’d take shouting if he’s honest.

Eventually, the need for a reaction outweighs the shame that’s burning up his skin, and he glances up.

It’s not what he thought he’d find. There’s no revulsion or pity, but Merlin’s eyes are swimming with tears and he’s trembling, his shoulders shaking despite his obvious attempt to hold himself still.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out because as pathetic as it may be, seeing Merlin upset still turns his stomach. “I’m—obviously, I don’t expect anything from you, this doesn’t have to change anything. I wouldn’t even have told you but—“

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts, and his voice is hoarse and strained. “It’s not—you—“ He clenches his eyes shut and presses a hand against his mouth, then takes a shuddering breath. “You wouldn’t be saying any of this if you knew about—if you were yourself right now,” he says quietly, and he’s not looking at Arthur, isn’t sounding like himself.

Arthur feels like there’s something else Merlin meant to say, but he also hears, clear as day, the unspoken implication; that Merlin doesn’t feel the same.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. For what it’s worth, Arthur knew this already, knew it so surely that he never planned to put either of them into this position. Still, it’s like a pit has opened right in the middle of his chest, pressing down on his lungs and making it impossible to breathe.

A flicker of anger tries igniting right in the hollow of it, shame and rejection and self-contempt coalescing into something ugly and bitter, but he pushes it down.

Instead, he focuses on the one thing Merlin said that’s offering him a way out of this whole mess. “I don’t think I am,” he says, and he still can’t bring himself to really look at Merlin, but at least his tongue seems to agree with his brain for the time being. “I didn’t mean to say any of this, but it felt like I was—forced to.”

Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, and Arthur briefly considers lying. Considers claiming that none of it was the truth either, that it was a fabrication of the magic that was so clearly used on him, but he can’t.

It was one thing to keep it to himself but denying the unshakable truth of it tastes like betrayal. Not to mention that he’s not sure if his mouth would even comply, if he’d be able to spin a lie right now, however poorly.

“A truth spell,” Merlin says after a long pause during which Arthur can feel his gaze on him. “Or something like that. If—if what you said…” He trails off, but Arthur hears the question loud and clear.

He seems to have some shreds of dignity left somewhere and raises his head, looking straight at Merlin. “Yes.”

If he found that bloody sorceress right now, he’s pretty sure he could defeat her easily, magic be damned.

Merlin looks wrecked, his eyes red-rimmed and his skin pale, and something twinges in Arthur’s chest at how it’s his confession that did this.

“I don’t know what we could possibly do about it,” Merlin says, his hands twisting together as if any of this is his fault. “It could wear off overnight, but if it doesn’t, we need to get you to Gaius. And keep you away from anyone who could ask you questions that you definitely shouldn’t answer.”

The ramifications of the potential dangers beyond this personal disaster wash over Arthur like iced water, and he bites his tongue to keep from cursing.

“What is it with every magic-user having a sadistic streak a mile wide?” he mutters, rubbing his temples to at least keep himself from grabbing his sword and hacking away at the next best target.

Merlin doesn’t answer, only gets up and walks over to the other side of the fire where he lies down, curling in on himself.

Arthur doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, but he lies down anyway, watching Merlin’s silhouette.

It’s going to be a long night. He doesn’t even want to think about what’s going to come after.

* * *

He must’ve fallen asleep at some point, although he doesn’t feel particularly well-rested when Merlin shakes him awake. The memories of the previous day are still fresh in his mind, and he’s part relieved and part hurt when Merlin turns away from him as soon as he opens his eyes.

“How do you feel?” Merlin asks as he tries lighting the fire again, and Arthur has to bite down on a bitter laugh at the question. He knows that Merlin means the spell, and maybe his head, and Arthur should probably worry most about those too. His heart doesn’t seem to have got the message because the dread thrumming through his veins is solely due to what’s already taken place.

“Miserable,” he says, instead of the _fine_ that he meant to voice. Well, that at least disproves the theory of the spell wearing off on its own.

Merlin frowns, studying Arthur closely. “I don’t like the idea of taking you back to Camelot like this.”

“We can hardly hide in the forest and hope that it’ll go away on his own,” Arthur counters. “Hopefully, Gaius will know what to do. I just can’t talk to anyone who might ask questions.”

“You can’t fight it at all?”

“Don’t you think if I could, I would’ve done so last night?” Arthur snaps before he can stop himself, and he instantly regrets it at Merlin’s answering flinch. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and fixes his eyes on the small fire in front of him. “I don’t know. Ask me something then—something harmless.”

A grimace flashes over Merlin’s face, his fingers stilling in their endless fidgeting. Eventually, a small smirk curls his lips and Arthur’s so relieved to see the faintest hint of _Merlin_ that he doesn’t have time to be nervous about the question.

“Do you miss on purpose when throwing things at me?” Merlin asks, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of dawn, and Arthur snorts.

Still, he tries to bite down on the answer that’s insisting to make it past his lips. Purses his mouth and grinds his teeth so hard, he can hear his jaw crack. It doesn’t matter. “Yes,” he finally chokes out, and his shoulders slump in defeat.

If he can’t lie about something as simple as this, can’t even twist the truth into a joke, he’s well and truly fucked. He can only hope that they won’t run into someone who figures out what’s going on and that Merlin won’t ask him any other questions until this is resolved.

To his credit, Merlin looks as far from wanting to take advantage of this as one possibly could. It should make Arthur grateful, but all he manages is a mixture of resignation and bitterness. Merlin has probably had more than enough revelations.

“Right,” Merlin says after the silence stretches for a beat too long, wiping his hand on his breeches and pushing himself to his feet. “We’re going back to Camelot and straight to your chambers. I’m going to tell anyone who asks that you’re ill, contagious if I have to, and get Gaius.”

Arthur’s more than ready to get home, to get some space from this Merlin with his slightly vacant eyes and twisting hands. Who can’t meet Arthur’s gaze for longer than a few seconds and somehow seems to be taking the whole thing even worse than Arthur.

“We can’t _not_ let anyone know. If the court thinks I’m seriously ill, it could turn into a threat to my authority. They’re going to speculate endlessly if you and Gaius are the only ones aware of what’s going on. We’ll have to tell at least Leon and my uncle.”

“No. Leon, alright, but not Agravaine.”

“ _Merlin_ —“ Arthur starts, familiar indignation flaring in his stomach that’s only heightened by the stress that’s been tingling at his spine since last night.

He doesn’t get any further, Merlin’s glare is ferocious enough for him to snap his mouth shut. “Arthur, I’m serious. Anyone but your uncle, not before this is resolved.”

He wants to protest, wants to insist that his uncle is the last remaining family that he can trust; and he probably would have if he were capable of the barest amount of untruth right now. As it is, he still remembers the acrid taste of suspicion from when Merlin had disappeared, his confrontation of his uncle and the question of the traitor at court.

It could’ve only been Agravaine or Gaius, and while Arthur’s beyond certain that Gaius would never do anything to put Merlin in danger, he’s not as sure as he wants to be that the same can be said about his uncle and himself.

Too many of those he’s trusted proved to not return the sentiment, proved to be all too ready to turn their backs on Arthur for one reason or another. He’s never been able to inspire the same loyalty in people as Merlin, except for in Merlin himself.

At least until now. A niggling voice in the back of his mind is whispering that he might’ve finally managed to drive a wedge between them too.

“Alright.”

The walk back to Camelot is silent. Merlin keeps a step ahead of Arthur, only rarely glancing over his shoulder to make sure that he’s still there, and neither of them speaks.

The absence of Merlin’s mindless prattle, usually always there to at least bring a superficial relief in whatever dire mess they find themselves in, hurts more than Arthur cares to admit. Still, it is nothing against the fear of it being lost to him for good.

It also provides him with too much time to think, to turn over all the ways things could irreparably be changed between them. He remembers the words of the witch, her claim of not intending to harm him, and how she still ultimately struck where it hurts the most.

He wonders if she was aware of that. Nobody knows about his feelings for Merlin, but then again, who knows what someone with magic can figure out if they set their mind to it.

When Camelot’s towers finally come into view, there’s a headache pounding behind his temples that has little to do with the hit he took yesterday. He can hear Merlin’s deep sigh and clenches his hands into fists until his nails are biting into his skin to not comment on it.

There’s one conclusion he’s come to in the time it took them to get here; Merlin’s clearly keen to ignore Arthur’s involuntary confession, and if that’s what it takes for them to get through this, Arthur’s more than ready to comply.

He’d be lying if he said that he has any desire to ever talk about this again either. Forgetting would probably be a little too ambitious, but ignoring it really is the next-best course of action as far as he’s concerned.

The weak autumn sun is barely climbing over the castle’s high walls, which is probably the main reason for why they’re only coming across guards and a few servants hurrying through the corridors. None of whom would ask Arthur any unwelcome questions, and at least some of the weight lifts from his shoulders as they finally arrive in his chambers.

He drops into the chair by his desk, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. All he wants to do is to crawl into bed and pull the covers over himself. To pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, that the last twenty-four hours never happened, and to only come out again when Merlin has forgotten all about his existence.

Merlin, who’s hovering in the doorway and twisting his fingers into his sleeves, looking everywhere but at Arthur.

He doesn’t feel charitable enough to send him off, and neither vindictive enough to comment on it. Rationally, he’s perfectly aware that none of this—the spell, his feelings, Merlin’s lack of reciprocation—is Merlin’s fault.

Irrationally, the urge to let his frustration out on something—or someone—has been steadily growing since he woke up.

“You—“ Merlin starts, but then he sighs. “I’ll just get Gaius.”

“See that you do,” Arthur says, only heard by the closed door, which is probably for the best.

He lets his head drop to the table and stays like this until he hears a knock and then the door creaking open some indefinite amount of time later.

“Sire,” Gaius greets, raising an eyebrow at what must be a miserable expression on Arthur’s face. “Merlin told me what happened.”

Arthur nods, hoping with every fibre of his being that Merlin did actually leave some parts out of his recollection.

“For both of our comfort, I’m going to avoid asking you any direct questions,” Gaius says, stepping around the table and coming to a halt next to Arthur. “I’m going to check on your head, and it would be good if you told me about how the spell works. How the compulsion to speak the truth feels, when it occurs.”

The familiarity of Gaius prodding at his head somehow eases some of Arthur’s tension, and he tries to find the words to explain the weird sensation of having no control over what he’s saying.

“It’s strongest when I’m asked a question,” he starts slowly, wincing as Gaius’ fingers press against his temples. “At first, it was subtle—I thought I had only let some things slip because of getting knocked out.”

Gaius meets his eyes briefly, gesturing for him to go on.

“Well, and then I talked about things I wouldn’t—I never talk about. Merlin told me that the witch cast a spell on me, and I kind of realised that—how it wasn’t normal, not explained away by the injury. It was like—as if the words got torn out of me against my will, no matter how badly I tried not to say them.”

“Was it painful, trying to keep from saying them?” Gaius asks, apparently done with his examination and leaning against the desk, a deep crease between his brows.

Arthur shakes his head slowly, searching for the words to explain the weird sensation. Figures that the spell wouldn’t help with that. “Not really, just—uncomfortable. I was—my mouth just did the talking. Like it didn’t really belong to me anymore?”

If he’s honest, talking about it only makes him feel worse.

As is his talent, Gaius seems to notice it as well and he squeezes Arthur’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you, I think that narrows it down quite a bit. I should be able to brew a potion for you by tomorrow—“

Whatever else he means to say is cut off when the door bangs open and Merlin stumbles inside, a plate of food in one hand. “Sorry, got held up by Leon,” he mutters when he spots the two of them, though his eyes stay just a bit off from Arthur’s. “Did you figure it out?”

Gaius nods before turning back to Arthur. “As I said, I should have something for you tomorrow if it doesn’t wear off until then. That it doesn’t hurt you is a sign that it’s not one of the stronger, darker spells, so the chance that it does wear off on its own is still there. Until then, you should avoid talking to anyone who doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Thank you, Gaius.”

“It’s no trouble,” Gaius says, pulling a vial out of his pocket and leaving it on the table. “For your head, take it after your food,” he says, bowing briefly before taking his leave.

The silence that follows is stifling. Merlin moves through the chambers without any apparent purpose, and Arthur’s stomach turns at the mere smell of food.

“You can go.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But this is uncomfortable and difficult and I just—“

“Alright. I told the guards to not let anyone in and I’ll be back—“

“Just _go_.”

The click of the door sounds too loud, and he lets his head drop back to the table with a groan.

The day passes slowly between pacing his chambers and sitting at his desk.

He wants to be angry at being put into this position in the first place. Wants to send out patrols upon patrols to find the witch, to put her on trial for taking this decision and, consequently, probably this friendship from him. Wants to have a go at a practice dummy until all he feels is the burning of his muscles and the silence of his mind that comes with it.

But while there is some anger, some resentment and some undeniable bitterness, it’s more of a simmering current underneath the fear and the hurt. It makes him feel weak, vulnerable, and the lack of fury to drown it out only leaves behind deep-seated exhaustion.

He still jumps when the doors creak open as dusk is falling, washed-out light spilling into the room and letting it appear more peaceful than is suitable for the circumstances.

It’s Merlin—because of course, it’s Merlin, who else wouldn’t bloody knock—and he once again has a plate of food in one hand. The breakfast he brought earlier still lies untouched on the table, and Arthur isn’t any hungrier than he was hours ago.

Merlin’s eyes flicker over him only briefly, and still they are too heavy on his skin. The room is smaller all of a sudden, and the silence crawls underneath Arthur’s skin, twisting and wrapping around his lungs until he’s suffocating underneath its weight.

“How are things in the castle going?” he asks, just to say something, anything at all.

“Alright, I think,” Merlin says, moving to pick up some clothes. “I’ve told Leon what happened, and he informed the council that you’ve come down with a cold.”

“Don’t you want to eat something?” Merlin asks after a beat, his eyes resting somewhere on Arthur’s shoulder.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, turning away to stare out of the window.

“Arthur—“

“Don’t.”

Of course, Merlin has never once in his life listened to Arthur’s orders and maybe there’s something comforting in him not starting now. Arthur still wishes he would if only because there’s nothing Merlin can say to make this less difficult.

“I’m not—look, I’m sorry, alright?” Merlin says quietly.

It’s not Merlin’s place to be conflicted though, to feel bad about anything that happened, no matter how much Arthur longs for someone to blame. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and it comes out more clipped than he meant it to.

“I do,” Merlin insists, a vehemence behind his words that catches Arthur off guard. “I just—I want to—“

“ _Stop_ ,” Arthur growls, unable to bear the desperate attempt to make this hurt any less. “You don’t feel the same and that’s alright. You don’t have to explain yourself or try to make this better or—or whatever you’re trying to do here. It is what it is, and it too will pass, just—don’t come at me with _pity_. I’m still your King, and just because some wretched witch took away my ability to keep my secrets, it doesn’t mean that I ever _wanted_ to tell you or that you have any right to pretend that I did.”

“Arthur—“

“No!” he snarls, whirling around to face Merlin. He’s standing by the table, his hands clenched at his sides and his expression so full of guilt and anguish that it nearly stops the next words from making it past Arthur’s lips. Only nearly though, and this time it’s not even the bloody spell forcing them out but simply all the pent-up frustration and shame. “I don’t ever want to hear you talking about it again, and that’s an order.”

His voice is cold, and there’s a twinge of guilt at Merlin’s answering wince. He pushes it down, holds Merlin’s gaze for a moment longer before turning away again, and tells himself that this is for the best.

He’s not sure if Merlin would’ve accepted this any more than he ever accepts any of Arthur’s orders, but a knock on the door thankfully keeps him from having to find out.

“I’ll get it,” Merlin mutters, a hint of defeat in his voice, and Arthur only nods sharply before focusing his attention back on the courtyard beneath his window.

“I want to speak to my nephew,” is the first thing he hears, and his spine stiffens at the voice of his uncle.

A part of him wants to be angry at that reaction too, at Merlin for leaving him with a suspicion of his only remaining family. Another is glad that Merlin insisted to not tell his uncle if only because Arthur doesn’t want him to see him like this. He feels raw, too exposed and open to deal with anyone right now, and he just wants to be left alone.

“The King has ordered to not let anyone but the physician in,” Merlin says, and there’s a note of steel to his words that Arthur’s rarely heard.

“I’m his uncle—“

“Yes, but not the physician.”

“Listen here, you insolent boy—“

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I didn’t mean to insult,” Merlin says, tone sweetly dishonest. Arthur’s lips twitch on their own volition. “The King’s not available right now, and most likely won’t be until tomorrow. I’ll be happy to leave him a message though.”

Agravaine’s answer is too quiet for Arthur to understand, but the door clicks shut a moment later, so he must’ve accepted Merlin’s refusal.

“You can leave as well,” Arthur says, relieved when his voice comes out steady.

Usually, Merlin would protest; would poke and prod and get him to eat something, turn down the bed and make sure that Arthur’s alright.

Tonight, there’s only silence for a beat, then a quiet sigh and a “Goodnight, my Lord,” that for once doesn’t sound sarcastic.

It’s like something precious leaves together with Merlin. Something that, unlike his servant, friend, whatever Arthur would like to call him, won’t be coming back anytime soon.

* * *

The good thing is that the spell has worn off the next morning, something he discovers when Merlin asks him if he’s alright, and the “Fine,” he wants to answer actually makes it past his lips.

Seeing that he doesn’t want to tell Merlin how that’s actually a lie, he still takes Gaius’ potion.

Unfortunately, not being forced to tell the truth against his will doesn’t erase the damage that’s already done.

Merlin’s quiet these days, withdrawn and haggard and with dark circles underneath eyes that become more pronounced with each passing day.

He knows that he’s probably not helping; he’s tense and irritable, and it’s only worse when Merlin’s around. Usually, he’d be the one trying to get Merlin out of his mood, but now he’s weighing his every word. Where he once would’ve pulled him into a headlock and nudged him until he cracked and laughed, he now keeps a careful distance, a detached mask, and as little contact as is possible between a king and his servant.

No matter how much the hollow space in his chest seems to have taken up a permanent residence there, how much he misses what they’ve had even if there was always a longing for something _more_ , he’s unable to let Merlin quite so close again.

It leaves him lonely and guilty, and every patrol that returns without a sign of the witch fuels his irritation.

Others are beginning to catch on, he knows. Pointed comments from Gwaine and raised eyebrows from Leon that have no right to bear such a resemblance to Gaius are telling him that not only has the frigid air between them been noticed, but everyone seems to assume that it’s his fault.

Arthur knows that it is, he just has no idea how to get past this.

He brushes Leon off when he eventually attempts to talk to him about it; even if he were able to help, Arthur can’t bring himself to ever utter those words again, to relive the rejection and the wrecked expression on Merlin’s face.

The only person he could possibly contemplate talking to is Gwen, and she left Camelot to work in Leon’s parents’ estate after Lancelot’s death. Arthur knows that she’ll come back eventually, and he understands her need for distance, but he finds himself missing her more than usual. 

Merlin does try to talk to him, approximately a week later, but all it gets out of Arthur are harsh words that he regrets as soon as Merlin storms out of the room.

The only one happy about the recent development seems to be Agravaine, who commends Arthur for spending less time with the lower class and growing into a king after his father’s expectations.

After another week, it starts bleeding into his every-day-life so much that he notices the effects. His knights scramble to get out of training with him, his courtiers are wary to voice their opinions in court, and the servants scatter as soon as they see him.

For the first time ever, Merlin’s doing the same. He still appears for his duties, but his head stays bowed and his eyes averted, and his only answers to Arthur’s clipped orders are, “Yes Sire,” and, “Of course, my Lord,” and even the occasional, “I’m sorry,” when Arthur takes out his temper on him despite his better judgement.

It makes his skin crawl and his heart ache, and he’s never wished more for a way to turn back time or find a way to reverse someone’s memories—consequences be damned.

* * *

“There has been word about Morgana being sighted at the Northern borders,” Agravaine says as soon as he’s closed the door to Arthur’s chambers.

“Is it a reliable source?” Arthur asks, pulling the appropriate map out of the mess on his desk and checking his patrol schedule against it.

Agravaine sits down across from him and inclines his head. “Yes, Sire. We should send additional patrols to the area.”

“We can’t afford that,” Arthur says, shaking his head and frowning down at the parchment.

Agravaine clears his throat. “Sire, if we withdrew a few men from the western part—”

“No.”

“Is there really a need to control the surrounding area of the Valley of the Fallen Kings so closely? Wouldn’t it be more important—”

“I said no,” Arthur snaps, raising his head to meet his uncle’s eyes. “It’s not as if a patrol could achieve much against Morgana anyway. If she’s really up north, which is a rather too broad area to cover anyway, we’ll hear about it soon enough. The amount of bandits in the west is getting out of hand and I won’t leave it unprotected for a hunt based on nothing but rumours.”

Agravaine’s lips purse and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to protest. In the end, he inclines his head again and takes his leave without another word.

As soon as the door shuts, Arthur sighs and pushes the maps and plans away, rubbing his temples.

It’s been raining the whole day, rolling clouds hanging low in the sky and the biting October wind crawling through the castle corridors. Arthur didn’t think it was possible for him to be in a worse mood than he’s been for the last few weeks, but here they are.

The lack of training isn’t helping against the now ever-present tension, and Merlin not showing up this morning has, for the first time, made him consider the possibility that he could actually leave.

Arthur’s never spared much thought for why Merlin stayed all these years. Theoretically, he knows that Merlin’s learning under Gaius and that he has a home away from Camelot, but no matter how many misplaced feelings, Arthur could always be sure that they were friends.

But he’s not been an actual friend for weeks now, has been anything but if he’s honest with himself, and it’s obvious to anyone who cares to look that it’s taking a toll on Merlin.

It’s taking a toll on Arthur too, but nobody cares for the sensibilities of the King as long as he’s ruling.

Merlin hasn’t shown his face once today, and when it occurred to Arthur that at some point, Merlin might simply have enough, cold dread settled in his chest, wrapping around his ribs and twisting up his throat until he could barely breathe.

Of course, par for the course of the recent weeks, he doesn’t manage to stop himself from snapping when Merlin finally does appear in his chambers that night.

The windows are rattling in the wind, the candles flickering and throwing shadows through the chambers that haven’t felt warm in a long time, and he stares at Merlin’s rigid figure in the doorway and he _aches_.

“Where the hell have you been? You do know that your job takes place every day and not just whenever you please to do it?” he snarls, and only years upon years of his father’s heavy gaze on him keep him from wincing at the cruelty of his own words.

Merlin deserves something better than this, than the King who fell in love with his servant and turns into a bitter man over the rejection of something he never had a claim to in the first place.

Merlin steps into the room, shutting the door quietly behind himself and approaching Arthur’s desk.

It takes Arthur a moment to catch on to what’s different tonight, and he nearly startles when he realises that Merlin’s meeting his glare head-on.

There’s a determined set to his jaw, his shoulders are straight and his chin is raised. Something akin to fear is lingering in his eyes though, and the panic rising in Arthur’s throat keeps him from saying anything.

Merlin halts in front of the desk and puts two vials down. His fingers linger on them briefly and he takes a measured breath. “I need to tell you something,” he says, the faintest tremble to his voice. “And I need you to know that everything I’m going to say is nothing but the truth.”

He meets Arthur’s eyes again then, resolve and terror chasing each other over his expression, and Arthur can do nothing but nod.

“This is a truth potion,” Merlin says, and he taps one of the vials. “And this is the antidote. It’s not—not like the spell, it doesn’t only work for questions but for anything I say.”

A surge of aversion spikes through Arthur at the idea, at Merlin being subjected to anything remotely close to losing all means of choice over what he wants to reveal. At what has to be so important that he’d willingly do this.

“Why would you—“ he says, finally finding his voice even though it’s hoarse and doesn’t hide his dread in the slightest.

Merlin offers him a small smile, one that’s sad around the edges. His hands are trembling as he picks up the potion, watching it move in the stained glass. “Because otherwise, we’re going to lose each other,” he says, staring straight at Arthur.

It knocks the air out of him and watches helplessly as Merlin uncorks the bottle. “Just—let me explain first before you get angry and throw me out, yeah?”

Before Arthur can demand an explanation, Merlin downs the potion.

He flops into the chair across from Arthur, his hands still shaking as he wraps them around the armrests, and the air is brimming with anticipation.

“Ask me something,” Merlin finally says, glancing up at Arthur. “Something you know I wouldn’t answer truthfully otherwise.”

The, _‘I want you to know that it works,’_ goes unsaid. His mind is still scrambling to catch up to what’s happening, to why Merlin would do this, and it takes him a while to come up with a question that serves the purpose but doesn’t force Merlin to reveal something he might not want to.

“Alright,” he mutters, clearing his throat and grinning faintly. “How many times a week do you really go to the tavern?” he asks, and he thinks it’s a pretty harmless question until he sees Merlin’s wince.

“I can count the number of times I’ve been to the tavern on one hand,” Merlin says, and there’s an apology in his eyes even as he bites his lips and sighs.

Arthur’s not sure what to say; if it were only the words, he might think that Merlin’s having him on, that the potion clearly doesn’t work. But all of this is too serious, Merlin’s whole posture and his expression too conflicted to believe it anything but a reluctant admission.

“Why would Gaius say it so often then?”

“To cover for me,“ Merlin says, clearly reluctant, and he shakes his head and huffs. “Let’s just say it’ll probably become obvious soon enough?”

The protest is already sitting on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, but he’s no longer in the position to demand anything of Merlin but his servitude.

“Right,” Merlin murmurs, running a hand through his hair and straightening up. “I suppose you’re wondering what all of this is about.”

If the situation was any less tense, if the last few weeks hadn’t happened, Arthur might’ve rolled his eyes. As it is, he merely inclines his head, fingers twisting his mother’s ring restlessly.

“I love you,” Merlin says, meeting his eyes without flinching even though he’s pale. “I love you so bloody much that I sometimes can’t breathe with it, can’t contemplate how—how you’re even _real_. You’ve been the focal point of my life for years now, and the last few weeks have nearly torn me apart. I love you more than I love myself sometimes and I don’t think that’s particularly healthy, but I can’t help it.”

Arthur’s pulse is thundering in his ears and his mouth is dry, his fingers frozen in his lap. This has to be a joke, some twisted, sick idea of a prank because it doesn’t make sense, doesn’t fit with all the pain they’ve gone through ever since Arthur muttered startingly similar words to Merlin.

“You’re wondering what the problem was then, why I haven’t just told you this back in the forest and avoided all the misery of the last few weeks.”

He can do nothing but nod, watching as Merlin’s shoulders stiffen, his knuckles turning white where he’s still gripping the chair.

But he doesn’t look away from Arthur. “Because I have magic. I’m a warlock—I was born with it, could move things with my mind before I could lift my head. I just—I _couldn’t_ tell you without you knowing about it, and I—I was terrified you’d hate me. Not telling you clearly didn’t work out either, so…”

Against all logic, the words seem to ring through the chambers, echoing around Arthur’s skull as he tries to process them.

Merlin. Magic. Merlin has magic. He wants to laugh at the mere idea, wants to scuff him around the head and tell him to stop being an idiot. Wants to ask him what the hell he’s trying to accomplish here, selling Arthur mediocre lies that nobody could possibly believe because Merlin’s always been a terrible liar.

But Merlin can’t lie right now, and the longer Arthur allows the words to sink in, the more sense they make; the more things start to make a frightening _amount_ of sense, and he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or run or shout until none of it is any longer real.

“I use it for you.” Merlin’s soft voice breaks through the haze that’s clouding Arthur’s mind, and he realises only then that he’s closed his eyes at some point, screwed shut as if it would help to keep out reality.

“Only ever for you. I’m not saying that I’ve always made the right choices because the goddess knows I haven’t, but I—I saved your life so many times that I lost count. And I wouldn’t want it any other way, you’re—“ Merlin breaks off, turning his face away for the first time as his lips press into a thin line.

Arthur recognises the gesture, and he wants to laugh at the urge to relieve Merlin from all this too. Merlin, a sorcerer, in his court for years without anyone knowing that the cheery, bumbling servant could bring Prince and King and Kingdom down if he so pleased.

“You’re what gave me a purpose, a home. Something to be myself for,” Merlin goes on.

A part of Arthur wants to doubt anything he says, wants to doubt that this is even a truth potion at all, but he’s always been hopeless when it comes to Merlin.

Maybe he just wants to believe him, but it doesn’t matter; he _does_ , and he wouldn’t be able to do anything else if he tried.

It doesn’t make it hurt any less, the understanding of how the person he’s considered his closest friend for years now has hidden such an important part of himself from Arthur.

“You’re also my destiny,” Merlin says, and his face twists into a grimace as if he didn’t mean to say that. “Ridiculous as that sounds.”

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as sharp as it does, to basically confirm the fear Merlin must’ve lived with. How is it that something he’s been hoping for, for years, can end up like this?

“There’s a prophecy, about us,” Merlin explains, and while a small smile curls his lips at the mention, there also appears a haunted gleam in his eyes that Arthur doesn’t like. “About how you’re the Once and Future King, said to unite the land of Albion and—and—“ He falters, his throat working, but he eventually gives in with a sigh. “To unite the land of Albion and bring back magic to the land. And me, Emrys, said to be the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth, to protect and to aid you. Two sides of the same coin.”

A burst of breath leaves Merlin as he finishes, and Arthur suspects that he wouldn’t have put it quite like this if the potion didn’t make him.

The sliver of guilt—and really, it would figure that he’d feel guilty even though Merlin took the potion on his own volition—pales in comparison to the sudden question that’s burning on his tongue.

“So, you’re only here—you’re only my friend because of some prophecy that’s supposed to free your kind?” he asks, loathing how his voice cracks, how all the insecurities and fears shine through so easily. Loathes that Merlin’s the person who can read him best while Arthur apparently doesn’t know him nearly as well as he liked to believe.

Of all possible reactions, he doesn’t expect Merlin to choke out a bitter laugh. Merlin’s staring at him, and there are things lurking in his eyes that are familiar to Arthur in a way that he never wanted to see on Merlin.

“If only,” Merlin finally says, his shoulders shaking; if with laughter or something else altogether, Arthur can’t tell. “The number of times I’ve turned on my own people to keep you safe—to keep you _happy_. You have no idea. I saved your bloody father more than once, simply because I knew it would hurt you to lose him. Tried to as well, the last time.”

The last few words are barely more than a whisper, but Arthur still hears them. Still hears them, and suddenly he knows why the eyes of the old sorcerer were so familiar, knows why he so easily trusted a stranger who had already proven himself to be no friend of Camelot.

“You,” he breathes, and he’s not sure if it’s an accusation in his tone but it must be something because Merlin visibly shrinks in his chair, the blood draining from his face.

“I tried, Arthur,” he vows, tears appearing in his eyes as terror sets in. “I really tried, and the spell should’ve worked but—but Morgana—“

“How would Morgana have possibly been able to intervene?” Arthur interrupts, anger and desperation and terror brewing in a toxic mix. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t got up yet, hasn’t reached for his sword and made sure that Merlin, Merlin who murdered his father, Merlin who was supposed to be his one friend, Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_ —

Somehow, through the haze that’s clouding his vision, he still sees the sheer terror on Merlin’s face, sees the plea in his eyes as he presses a hand against his mouth.

A weird sense of calm washes over Arthur, the kind of serenity that usually comes with the realisation that a battle is lost.

“Who?” he asks, his voice quiet and void of emotion, and Merlin shakes his head, but they both know it’s a hopeless fight.

Merlin ducks his head, the tension leaving his shoulders as he slumps in his chair. “Agravaine,” he says, and it’s apologetic but it’s firm, no room for doubts left in the single name.

After discovering that Merlin has been going behind his back for years, has been lying to him and the goddess knows omitting what truths, the discovery of yet another betrayal shouldn’t be such a shock, but Arthur goes cold all over.

A distant part of his mind is whispering that Merlin might’ve committed treason, but he hasn’t _betrayed_ Arthur, not really. Against all reason, he believes that Merlin’s telling the truth; that he’s protected Arthur even though that was never supposed to be his burden, shouldn’t have ever fallen on his shoulders. That he _loves_ Arthur, and despite all the hurt, it leaves him lighter than he’s been in weeks.

“For how long have you known?”

“Since Lancelot’s death.”

Arthur nods, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table, and Merlin doesn’t say anything as he thinks.

“Take the antidote.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up, his gaze flicking between Arthur and the potion. “There are—there’s a lot I still have to tell you,” he says, his voice rough in a way that tells Arthur that this might’ve not been the worst of it.

He wonders what could be worse than—accidentally—killing his father and decides that he can’t deal with it tonight. “Take it, I’ll believe you without it.”

“I know it’s a lot, but there are—I need to get this out because I’m scared that I won’t do it otherwise. Ever.”

Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but Arthur feels, for the first time tonight, like he’s seeing the Merlin he thought he knew. Determined and stubborn and insistent to do what he thinks is right.

He doesn’t want to hear more, but he also doesn’t want to put either of them through anything like this again. He nods.

A rattling breath, a quick swipe of his sleeve over his eyes, and Merlin’s staring at him again. “What Morgause told you about your mother was true. I lied to you because you would’ve never forgiven yourself for killing your father, but it was the wrong way to go about it. I freed the great dragon in exchange for information on how to save Camelot from the sleeping spell. I knew Morgana had turned on us long before it came out, and even though Gaius says otherwise, I’m at least partly responsible for her doing so.”

Before Arthur can even begin to form a response, Merlin shakes his head sharply and goes on. “When I disappeared in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, I was captured by her and she put me under a spell to kill you. The Dragonlord we searched for was my father, and I inherited his powers when he died. I helped to steal the key to the tomb of Ashkanar and saved the dragon egg we went after and hatched it. I won’t give her up either, no matter how much I love you.”

Arthur desperately wants to forget everything he’s just heard. Maybe it’s the shock, his mind refusing to actually process all the treasonous things Merlin just spouted, but the anger Arthur would’ve expected doesn’t come.

He _knows_ Merlin. Knows him regardless of magic and lies and the distance that’s grown between them, and if there’s one thing that’s always been true about Merlin, it’s that he’s too self-sacrificing for his own good.

“And the good things you did?”

It takes Merlin a moment, his lips moving silently as if it’s the last question he’s expected, and his brain is needing time to catch up with the demand. Somehow, he seems even more reluctant to speak than before, and it would figure that he’s more averse to singing himself praises than to digging his own grave.

“I saved Uther’s life more than once. When you were bitten by the Questing Beast, I intended to exchange my life for yours but when Nimueh took my mother in my place, I killed her. I defeated Cornelius Sigan and Morgause and her immortal army, thwarted Morgana’s plans so many times I’ve lost count, and saved you from more than one love spell. I—seriously, I saved your life so many times, it would take us all night to tell you all of it.”

Arthur believes him. Arthur believes all of it, even as words are chasing themselves through his head, a cacophony of voices and flashes of memories that are rearranging themselves into a new picture.

The creaking of the chair across from him alerts him to the fact that he’s been silent for too long, and he looks up at Merlin.

It shouldn’t come as such a shock that he still looks the same; his hair a mess, his cheekbones pronounced in the flickering of the candlelight, and his eyes too bright and too blue and so, so desperately hopeful. There’s a stubborn gleam to them though, telling Arthur that he won’t be getting an apology either.

Strangely enough, it’s more of a relief than anything else. It’s obvious that Merlin has done what he thought best, and while there’s a lot they’ll have to unpack eventually, Arthur knows a thing or two about making difficult decisions.

Despite the hurt, he also understands why Merlin hid for so long. Arthur can’t claim to know what it’s like to have your very existence threatened by execution, but he too would be careful about sharing a secret that could find his head on the chopping block faster than he can say, _‘Not guilty.’_

“I’ll need time,” he says, not letting his eyes waver from Merlin’s. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, and I believe what you said. But you—I’ll need time. And space—you should work for Gaius for a while.”

Merlin’s expression doesn’t fall, but resignation flashes over his face before all traces of it are gone. Maybe Arthur can see how he could hide for so long.

His heart is beating in his throat, but he leans forward until he can wrap his fingers around Merlin’s hand that’s clutching the vial with the antidote. “Thank you for telling me. Truly.”

Merlin’s answering smile is shaky at best, but he nods and squeezes Arthur’s hand before pulling away.

“I really do love you. Everything I did, I did for you,” Merlin says with his hand on the door handle. “And I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t specify what he’s sorry for, but he doesn’t need to.

Arthur’s “I’m sorry too,” is whispered to an empty room, but somehow, he thinks Merlin already knows.


	2. Chapter 2

After catching a few restless hours of sleep at the break of dawn and suffering through George over breakfast, Arthur trails towards the physician’s chambers.

Usually, Gaius would be on his morning rounds right now, but Arthur knows that whenever Merlin has the time, he takes those over for Gaius.

He’s not yet ready to confront Merlin, but he does need a bit more information. It’s not taken him long to realise that if there’s one person in the whole of Camelot who has to be aware of Merlin’s magic, it would be Gaius.

What’s more, Gaius would definitely know about the circumstances of Arthur’s birth. There’s only a very faint twinge of guilt at wanting answers that were clearly never meant to be given—it’s not as if his father will have to bear the consequences any longer.

As expected, there’s only Gaius in the cluttered workshop when Arthur steps inside. The wary expression that slips into place as soon as Gaius spots him is all the confirmation he needs to be sure that Gaius knows exactly what’s going on.

Not waiting for an invitation, he sits down on the bench across from where Gaius is standing and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Is it true that I was born of magic?” he asks bluntly, watching Gaius closely.

To his credit, Gaius only sighs. Putting down the stirring rod and moving the cauldron he’s been working on off the flame, he sits down and inclines his head. “I promised your father to take this knowledge to my grave, but—“

“I don’t want you to break a promise,” Arthur interrupts before he can stop himself. It’s true though—as much as he wants to, no, _needs_ to know, it’s not Gaius’ fault that his father was apparently an even bigger hypocrite than Arthur had wanted to admit to himself.

“ _But_ ,” Gaius repeats, raising a brow that has him snapping his mouth shut. “I never agreed with your father’s stance of keeping this from you.”

There’s no reason why Arthur should believe him, but he does. It seems to be a common theme, now that he thinks about it; always too ready to trust those around him. He nearly snorts out loud when Merlin’s voice echoes through his mind, insisting that it makes him a better king than his father.

He’s not so sure about that, though he’s coming to see that it might not be as hard to outdo his father as he used to think.

“It’s true that due to his want for an heir, Uther went to Nimueh,” Gaius starts, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table. “She told him that the Old Religion requires balance, that for a life to be given, one must be taken. I, as well, told him more than once of the risks. I cannot say if your mother was aware of it though.”

Arthur already knew this. Had known this, in some distant corner of his mind, maybe for longer than he cares to admit. And still, his hands are trembling where they’re resting on the table, and he can’t breathe, betrayal and grief strangling the air out of his lungs.

“So, it really wasn’t my fault.” He hasn’t meant to say it, hasn’t known how deeply the relief would carve itself underneath his skin, and yet there are tears burning in his eyes.

It’s followed swiftly by a wave of fury; at his father for spending years looking at him as if it was, always, _always_ with remorse lingering in his gaze, in every admonishment that Arthur wasn’t living up to the expectations. Wasn’t worth the price he’s had to pay.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Gaius says. “No matter how it went down, it wouldn’t have been your fault, as I have told you many times as a child.”

It’s true, for what it’s worth, but Arthur could never really bring himself to believe it. He wonders why he has to lose his love for one parent to not feel wretched about the other, and then if family is simply something Pendragons shouldn’t deal in. They’re clearly not cut out for it without it ending in treachery, bloodshed, and lies.

“So, the purge,” he murmurs, more to himself, but the longer he thinks about it, the more the implications sink in. “It was all about his own guilt, wasn’t it?”

“In a sense, yes. Uther’s been wary of the power of those with magic before. But well, there’s wariness, and there’s…“

“Genocide,” Arthur finishes when Gaius seems to be unable to get the words out. “Murdering hundreds upon hundreds of people because he couldn’t live with himself.”

“Arthur—“

“No,” he interrupts, raising a hand to stall Gaius’ protest. “There have been many, _many_ things my father has done over the years that I was able to forgive. But—“ He breaks off, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. “Not this.”

“I have another question.”

Gaius gestures for him to go on, though there’s still a wariness lingering in his eyes, telling Arthur exactly who his loyalty would end up lying with if he had to choose. He thinks how Gaius wouldn’t be the only one, and he’s not sure if he should feel insulted or amused.

“Why did Merlin lie to me about it? I just—it doesn’t make sense. It only worsened my opinion of magic, and he must’ve hated my father. At least feared him.”

The, _‘like Morgana did_ ,’ goes unsaid, and if there’s one thing Arthur’s thankful for, it’s that there must’ve been something keeping Merlin from going down the same path.

It’s a strange feeling, suddenly understanding Morgana’s motives a little better. It’s just another weight to the ever-growing pile of, ‘ _Why did no one ever trust me enough to give me at least a chance?’_

A part of him knows why. He wishes it were easier to delude himself into thinking that he challenged his father’s actions, but his track-record is speaking so plainly against him, it’s much more honest to wonder how Merlin’s even still here.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Gaius asks, his eyebrow raised, and Arthur sighs.

“Well, he said that I would’ve never forgiven myself for killing my father but—well, wouldn’t there have been a less disastrous way to go about it? And I just—I don’t—“

Gaius tilts his head, mustering him for long, uncomfortable seconds. “Merlin would see himself burn at the stake before allowing you to be hurt, Sire. And as for your father—I won’t claim that Merlin could be considered anything but reluctantly tolerating. But he knew how much you loved him, which brings us back to the first part of this statement.”

Arthur recalls what Merlin said last night; how he’s saved Uther more than once, had tried to as well the last time, and it makes something uncomfortable and heavy, something suspiciously like guilt, twist in his chest.

It only gets worse when the subsequent conclusion sinks in; how it’s barely taken twelve hours until he’s trusting magic, trusting _Merlin_ enough, after years of lies, to think how Merlin would’ve had every right to let Uther die. How all of his father’s laws and lectures, his whole damned legacy, is not only plain wrong but tyrannical.

As much as a part of him, the one that has years upon years of striving for every scrap of his father’s approval on its back wants to baulk at the mere idea, Arthur can’t. Maybe he’s too tired, or too old, or too disillusioned—or maybe he’s just so very done with people turning out to be something else than he expected them to be.

Of course, if that were the case, Merlin should probably be included in the long list. He’s not though, quite the opposite, really; there’s a glimmer of warmth and disbelief fighting back against the disappointment, insisting how Merlin did, after all, love him so much that he ended up being the one person who had Arthur’s best interest at heart. _Arthur’s_ —not Camelot’s, or his own standing, or the King’s. A little bit too much, even, because Arthur never wanted him to give himself up in the process.

“He shouldn’t have—I mean, it was never supposed to be his job, to throw himself into harm’s way on my behalf.”

“When have you ever known Merlin to do what he’s supposed to do?”

It gets a weak smile out of Arthur, but it doesn’t placate the persistent worry that has been sitting heavy in his stomach ever since he processed what it actually all means.

He doesn’t want to focus too much on it, wants to draw up some remains of the anger that’s mostly fuelled by hurt. “What did he mean when he said that he’s partly to blame for what happened to Morgana?”

“He’s not. If you want to know about why he thinks so, you will have to ask him yourself, Sire.”

Right. Arthur has a feeling that even a direct order won’t get him anywhere here, and he’s too tired to be bothered by it. He’s pretty sure his father would scoff; he’s also pretty sure that he doesn’t care anymore what his father would think, or that he at least shouldn’t.

He’s not yet ready to talk about it with Merlin either though. Not about Morgana, not about his own father or Merlin and his apparent dragon. About any of the events that Merlin mentioned last night, regardless of how reasonable it would probably be to get as many of the facts as possible.

About Merlin returning his feelings, and how it still lets his heart skip a beat whenever he thinks about it.

After giving his thanks to Gaius, Arthur disappears down to the training grounds. It’s still pouring and there’s nearly no one outside, but if he doesn’t get to channel all that nervous energy somewhere, he might just go mad.

He doesn’t bother asking Gaius to keep his visit between the two of them. It’s easier to spare them both more lies.

* * *

The weather thankfully clears, the low November sun spilling golden over the castle, and Arthur spends as much time as he can possibly justify out on the training grounds.

A silver lining if there ever was one is that after the tension of the last few weeks, nobody dares to ask too many questions about Merlin’s absence.

To his credit, Merlin really does stay out of Arthur’s way. And yet, Arthur sees flashes of him everywhere; in a splash of blue against the white backdrop of the castle walls, in muted laughter wafting down the corridors, and in the lack of fondly exasperated glances and lingering touches whenever George is serving him.

In the missing whispered comments during drawn-out council sessions that used to make everything more bearable, in the cold that’s seeping into every corner of his chambers, and in having to face his uncle day in and day out with doubts festering away in his mind with no one to talk to.

But as badly as he feels Merlin’s absence like a physical ache, a hollow space right in the centre of his chest, Arthur can’t bring himself to call him back. Can’t bring himself to face whatever else there is about his life that he’s never been aware of. All the accomplishments that were never his to claim, all the gratitude he should’ve bestowed, all the betrayals still lingering in the shadows, just waiting to deal him another blow.

Arthur’s never considered himself a coward, but then, he’s always been hopeless when it came to Merlin. It should make him angry, maybe, usually would have, but it’s like his capacity for anger has been drained away in the previous weeks, and all there’s left is exhaustion.

Of course, Camelot wouldn’t be Camelot if he got the chance to come to terms with it all. It just has to be his uncle, of all people, who robs him of the time he still so desperately needs.

He’s spent longer than he cares to admit with trying to find arguments against Agravaine possibly being the traitor, and when he failed beyond anything but sentimentality, he tried to come up with reasons. Why Agravaine would do this. Why his father would, Morgana, why every single member of his family seems to have such an easy time to stab Arthur in the back.

It costs him every little ounce of willpower to not throw his uncle into the dungeon when he suggests that Gaius may be the traitor.

Arthur can see it now, the subtle manner in which Agravaine lets himself appear contrite, manipulating Arthur right to where he wants him to be.

He feels like a fool for not catching on to it sooner and brushes him off, but his hands clench so tightly, the sting of his nails against his palms stays all the way to Gaius’ chambers.

Some luck must’ve been left to him because Gaius is once again alone when Arthur pushes his way into the workshop. “Agravaine is accusing you of treason,” he states, flopping into the nearest chair, and only when Gaius’ shoulders stiffen does it occur to him that this might not be the best opening he’s ever chosen. “I don’t believe him, obviously.”

Gaius raises a brow at him, and Arthur runs a hand over his face. “I just—I don’t know what to do. I fear that if I simply banish him, he’ll run straight to Morgana, and I can’t do anything else without definite proof if I don’t want to risk sowing mistrust and uncertainty in my council and among the people.”

“That is unfortunate but true. I doubt that it will be easy to convict Agravaine of his lies though.”

There has been an idea sitting at the back of Arthur’s mind for days now. One that he doesn’t particularly like, resents even, and yet it’s the only solution he’s come up with that offers a clear path out of this whole mess. “It would be if he was forced to tell the truth.”

Gaius stills in his movements and pins Arthur with a look. “Are you sure that is a wise idea, Sire?”

Arthur laughs, mirthless and brief. “No. I hate it, more than anything. But I don’t know what else to do, Gaius. If he admits to it, I can imprison him. I—I don’t think I could—“

“That only speaks in your favour, Arthur,” he says quietly, and Arthur wonders if he’s that obvious.

It’s something Merlin would say, and a pang of longing resonates through his chest.

“Would it be possible?” he asks after a pause, and the reluctance is so clearly ringing through his words that it makes him wince. “In the meeting with the smaller council today, maybe, and only to get him to admit his complicity with Morgana.”

“In that case, the spell would be a better choice. Administering the truth potion wouldn’t be the problem. The antidote on the other hand…“

Unfortunately, it makes sense.

Arthur sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes before looking up at Gaius again. “Would you ask—him?”

Gaius stays silent for so long that Arthur fears he might refuse, but he can’t bear the thought of facing Merlin for the first time, only to ask something like this of him.

Not that doing it through someone else is less awful. It’s just easier to delude himself that it will be better to finally set things right between them afterwards.

Eventually, Gaius inclines his head in agreement, though his eyebrows tell Arthur clearly that he’s not happy about it.

Still, Arthur’s glad that Gaius doesn’t push, that he seems to understand that the time he needs is not judgement.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Gaius to get back to him with the affirmation of Merlin being willing to do the spell.

The guilt over asking something like this of Merlin is sitting heavy in Arthur’s stomach, and he vows to finally search him out after the meeting is over.

For now, he can only focus on the small smile on his uncle’s face, on how he’s clearly thinking himself safe. The council today is made up of his most trusted knights and a few of his advisors, with Merlin being the only servant lingering in the background.

Arthur’s throat is dry and his chest too tight, but his father has spent years drilling into him how to conceal his nervousness, and he welcomes his men as he always does.

“The first and most important point of today’s agenda is something of the utmost importance,” he says after the usual greetings and chances a glance at Merlin in the corner. It’s the cue he and Gaius agreed on, and Arthur’s just glad that he’s so occupied with the agitation thrumming through his veins that he can’t focus too much on Merlin’s presence.

A subtle nod from Merlin and Arthur draws a deep breath. “As most of you are aware, we still don’t have any further leads on who the potential traitor is.”

He wishes that he could find at least some vindication in the knowledge that the self-satisfaction on Agravaine’s face will be wiped away any second now, but all he wants to do is ignore his duty and pretend that none of this is real.

“Are there any new, potential clues, however small they may appear?”

Most of his men stare back at him with confusion written into their frowns, exchanging glances between them. It’s a rather redundant question, of course—no one would wait until a scheduled council meeting with information this important, and the question only opens up ways of speculation that Arthur usually doesn’t encourage.

“I do, Sire,” Agravaine speaks up, and no matter how much Arthur knew this would happen, his stomach still drops. “In fact, I think it’s time to stop this ridiculous charade. I’m the one who’s passing on information to Morgana,”

The room’s deadly silent and Arthur has to curl his hands around his chair to keep from punching his uncle right here. A part of him had some hope left that it might not be true after all. That Merlin had got the wrong end of the stick, had been mistaken, that it was all one big misunderstanding.

It takes a beat or two, but then Agravaine seems to catch on to what he just said, and his eyes widen in horror. His lips move soundlessly, and when no sound comes out, his eyes flicker towards the doors at the other end of the room.

The second he shifts in his chair, there’s the sound of several swords being drawn, Leon making it to Arthur’s side first.

“What are you saying, Lord Agravaine?” Gaius asks.

Arthur bites down on his tongue and keeps watching his uncle, not even bothering to keep the confusion and anger off his face.

Agravaine’s teeth are visibly grinding together, but he loses the fight against the spell soon enough. “I’m saying that I’ve been helping Morgana with her plans to take over Camelot. I was the one who leaked the route through the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and I’m the one who planted the necklace on Uther that reversed the healing spell the old sorcerer cast. Uther Pendragon is responsible for my sister’s death, _Arthur_ is responsible for my sister’s death, and the day for this cursed family to finally die out can’t come soon enough. There’s nothing different from son to—“

“That’s enough.” The voice that speaks up is low and commanding, and it takes Arthur a moment to recognise it as Merlin’s. When Arthur turns his head, he finds him standing next to Leon, staring down at Agravaine with so much cold loathing in his eyes that it sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

Agravaine’s mouth snaps shut, but the silence that was holding the room tight is broken. Low murmuring is breaking out around the table, quickly rising in volume, and Arthur presses his fingers to his temples.

He clenches his teeth and takes a few, measured breaths before looking up again. He finds both Leon and Elyan with their swords at Agravaine’s neck, who for his part is glancing around the room with poorly concealed panic.

Clearing his throat, Arthur waits until Agravaine meets his eyes. Even through the fear, there’s no remorse.

“Uncle, are you sure that you know what you’re saying?” Arthur asks, because regardless of how much he knows that Agravaine has probably never spoken truer words to him, his council doesn’t, and there might be those who are going to question the sudden confession.

Arthur probably wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know the signs, but he can see the struggle to not speak in the twitch of Agravaine’s jaw, in the way he swallows several times before he speaks. “I am. While this may thwart some of my plans, I am tired of pretending that I have anything but contempt for you.”

Well, at least something is going in Arthur’s favour within this whole nightmare.

“Then, I sentence you, Agravaine De Bois, to death by hanging for high treason against Camelot.” The words burn on his tongue like poison, and he shifts his gaze to Leon. “Bring him to the dungeons and have several knights stationed outside the cell at all times. Nobody’s to visit or speak to him but myself.”

Leon nods, but he chances one last, concerned glance at Arthur before he and Elyan drag Agravaine out of his chair. They’re followed out of the room by Gwaine and Percival, and as soon as the door closes behind them, loud talking breaks out around the table.

Arthur can feel a headache blooming behind his temples and raises a hand to silence them. “The council is dismissed,” he says, not bothering to wait for an answer before he gets up and strides out of the room.

Nausea is churning in his gut, Agravaine’s words repeating themselves over and over, echoing around his skull and drowning out all reason. It’s not until he’s halfway to his chambers that he notices someone a step behind him.

He’s ready to snap at whoever thinks they can bother him right now when his eyes fall on Merlin, and the words die right in his throat. Swallowing, he waits if Merlin’s going to say something. Nothing comes, and after a beat, he keeps on walking.

Arthur wants nothing more than to have Merlin close right now, but he doesn’t have another confrontation within himself.

Still, he lets Merlin trail after him into his chambers where he drops into his chair, burying his face into his hands. He can hear Merlin sitting down across from him, and when he finally glances up again, Merlin’s watching him with worry in his eyes.

“I’m—I know that we need to talk, but would you—could we do it later?” Arthur asks, and it’s pathetic and there’s guilt sprawling through his whole body, for taking so much time and for asking this of Merlin, and then not being able to actually confront any of it.

Merlin only smiles weakly and makes a dismissive gesture though. “I’m not here to pressure you into talking if you’re not ready yet.”

“I am,” Arthur protests before he can stop himself, and then huffs. “I planned to search you out after this but—“ He stops, unable to voice how despite everything, the idea of killing his uncle leaves his chest feeling too tight and his hands shaking.

“But you never intended for it to end like this,” Merlin says. “I should’ve stopped the spell sooner, I’m sorry.”

This dispels some of the numbness, and Arthur sits up straighter. “No. By the goddess, I can’t believe that you’d think any of this is your fault.”

Merlin snorts, shaking his head and mustering Arthur carefully. “Neither is it yours.”

“If I hadn’t asked you to—“

“Agravaine made his own choices. Truth is a slippery slope; if you tell yourself something for long enough, or often enough, you might just end up believing it as an undeniable fact. But that doesn’t make it one, Arthur.”

Arthur has to avert his gaze. “I don’t want to be responsible for the death of another family member.”

“I’m not going to tell you again that neither of your parents’ deaths was your fault, and to be honest, neither would be Agravaine’s but—“

“I’m the one who came up with this scheme and who spoke the—“

“ _But_ ,” Merlin interrupts, and Arthur just knows that he’s glaring even as he’s still staring down at the table. “I might have an idea of how to save him without it endangering either your reputation or Camelot.”

The sudden hesitance in Merlin’s tone should keep Arthur from asking, but he can’t help how his eyes snap up, how there’s a spark of hope reigniting in his chest. It’s followed swiftly by so much affection that it would’ve brought him to his knees if he wasn’t already sitting down.

Merlin hasn’t bothered to hide his dislike for Agravaine and, considering that the man was at least partly responsible for Merlin’s capture by Morgana, he’d have every right to want to see him dead. Yet here he is, coming up with what will surely turn out to be some half-mad scheme, simply to spare Arthur the guilt.

Well, and Merlin’s also never been one to wish harm on anyone, and something loosens in Arthur’s chest at finding this to still be true.

“Don’t look so hopeful, it’s no happily-ever-after either,” Merlin mutters, twisting his sleeves between his fingers and biting at his bottom lip.

The reluctance is so clear in his whole posture, Arthur’s not sure what to expect. “Come on, out with it. Don’t be a tease.”

“So, we obviously can’t just let him go. He’s going to question his sudden burst of honesty at some point, and it would be disastrous if Morgana got a clue of who I am. Or anything to hold against you, really.”

It makes sense, unfortunately; there’s barely anything worse than a hypocritical king. Arthur doesn’t plan on staying one for much longer, but Merlin doesn’t know that yet.

As Merlin explains his plan, Arthur has to keep himself from either laughing or hitting his head against the table. What’s consistent through it all though is the staggering relief that he hasn’t lost this, that they still have a chance to sort things out between them, and the burning urge to pull Merlin into that hug he offered years ago.

* * *

Merlin brings up his dinner for the first time in days, and it almost feels normal. Almost, if not for how they’re both still measuring their words, for how there’s a tense current underneath it all.

When Arthur dons his blue cloak, he catches Merlin watching him with an unreadable expression and raises his brows in question.

At first, Merlin only shakes his head, but then he smiles softly. “I gave that to you, back when you were convinced that you needed to prove yourself to your knights.”

Arthur’s aware of that, has kept it for that particular reason, but it’s not like he’s going to tell Merlin that. So, he only shrugs and asks, “Really?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, but if his small smirk is anything to go by, he probably knows.

“Wait for half a candle mark before you follow me, alright?” Arthur says as he sheaths his sword, mostly to change the topic but also because he’s still not sure that the whole plan won’t go up in flames.

“I know.”

“It would be bad if the guards—“

“Arthur, _I_ _know_. It’s not my first time sneaking through the castle.”

It should probably bother Arthur more, but he can only hide his smile in his hood and slip out of his chambers.

There’s barely anyone but the guards left in the halls, and he makes his way down to the dungeons undisturbed. It’s lucky that none of his most trusted knights are left on watch because they have an, at times, very annoying habit of asking too many questions.

As it is, those on duty accept his dismissal for the following hour without so much as a second glance, and Arthur’s left to his own devices.

He hesitates; it’s going to take Merlin a bit to get here, and Arthur’s not really keen to face his uncle again. At the same time, there’s a traitorous flicker of hope still. It’s ridiculously stupid—anything Agravaine had to say, he said earlier, and with more honesty than he ever would now.

And yet, Arthur steps into the corridor to the dungeons without any conscious decision, his heart racing in his chest.

Agravaine is the only one down here, sitting on the dingy cot and looking straight at Arthur. “Come to gloat?” he taunts, and it’s such a stark difference to how he has interacted with Arthur all these months that it feels like a physical slap to the face. “I’m sure Emrys is pleased.”

The name is distantly familiar, but Arthur can’t quite place it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Agravaine says with a sneer curling his lips. “You and I both know that I did not say any of those things on purpose, and there’s only one way to force someone into submission like this. You, in league with a sorcerer, who would have thought? And one apparently so very powerful at that. At least, you and your father have the hypocrisy in common, I suppose.”

Merlin. He’s talking about Merlin, though he’s obviously not aware of it. “How do you know about that?”

It’s not that important; he’s pretty certain that if he asked Merlin about it, he’d get an explanation, and now he also remembers Merlin mentioning the name in passing. Emrys, the greatest warlock to ever walk the earth.

Arthur still has trouble fitting the two pictures together.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Agravaine asks, and the sudden glee in his voice would’ve been obnoxious if it wasn’t only Arthur’s own choice of staying away from Merlin that has him lacking this knowledge. “He’s supposed to be Morgana’s destiny, her doom. As if anyone would be powerful enough to defeat her—Emrys obviously isn’t, considering she survived their last encounter.”

Arthur tilts his head. As much as he can be oblivious at times, he’s not _stupid_ , and strategy, seeing connections and putting pieces together with only half of the necessary information has always been his forte. At least if he doesn’t take Merlin into that equation.

“You mean after she tried—and failed—to get my servant to kill me?” he asks, deliberately innocent, though he fails at fully concealing his smugness.

Agravaine’s eyes widen the briefest amount, and he inclines his head in a mocking gesture. “Very good, Arthur. I’m sure your father would be proud of you for besmirching his legacy like this.”

A humourless bark of laughter makes it past Arthur’s lips before he can stop it, and he shakes his head. “For all that you really made me believe that you wouldn’t besmirch your _sister’s_ legacy in such a foul way, you’re really not as smart as you’d like to believe.”

It’s cruel, but there’s no remorse as Agravaine flinches back as if struck.

“Do you think she would be proud of you, trying to betray and kill her only son in her name?”

“You don’t know _anything_ about Ygraine,” Agravaine snarls, shooting to his feet and stepping up to the bars. “I told her that marrying your father was a terrible idea and look where it got her. Look what a wretched, self-righteous son he’s made out of you. Do you think she’d be proud of _you_?”

Arthur swallows. Raising his chin, he doesn’t break eye contact, and his voice is quiet when he says, “I think she would be. At least I never committed, nor am I ever going to, commit familicide.”

Whatever Agravaine would’ve had to say to that is cut off when Merlin stumbles into the corridor, his brows drawn together and eyes flicking between the two of them before settling on Arthur. “Are you alright?”

“ _You_ ,” Agravaine snarls, his hands curling around the bars. “What do you think you’re doing here? Arthur should’ve put you in your place ages ago—hell, Morgana should’ve let me kill you when I had the chance, you insolent, little—“

“Oh, _do_ shut up,” Merlin interrupts, sounding bored. “It’s really rather annoying to hear someone spout so much nonsense who wasn’t even able to put the most obvious pieces together. You and Morgana both, I swear to the goddess, I could carry around a sign saying, ‘ _I am_ _Emrys’_ and you still wouldn’t get it.”

Agravaine staggers back from the door of his cell, raising his hand to point at Merlin. “You. You, of all people. You are Emrys.”

“Very good, you’ll get points for stating the obvious.”

Arthur’s not sure if he should laugh or hit Merlin around the head, but he suppresses both urges. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to let him know that?” he asks instead because he might be missing a lot of information, but he can draw his own conclusions.

If Agravaine was keen to find Emrys, and if both he and Morgana know that he’s supposed to be Morgana’s downfall—which, honestly, is something Arthur will wrap his head around when all of this is over—he can take a good guess at how much danger Merlin is in.

Merlin merely raises an eyebrow at him, his expression that typical mixture of fondness and exasperation that’s solely reserved for Arthur.

“Get on with it, then.”

There’s a beat of hesitation during which Merlin watches him, and Agravaine babbles both pleas and demands in the background.

It’s the first time that Merlin’s going to do magic right in front of him, at least with Arthur actually being aware of it, and they both know it.

Merlin offers him a small smile and turns towards Agravaine. He doesn’t speak a word, but his eyes burn a brilliant gold, and Agravaine slumps to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut.

“You could’ve dropped him on the bed, couldn’t you?” Arthur murmurs as he draws the key from his pocket, and a glance at Merlin reveals him to be smirking faintly.

“I could’ve, but while it might not be great to hang him, a bump or two serves him right,” Merlin says without any hint of guilt whatsoever. He waves his hand and the threadbare blanket shifts, leaving it to look like a person is huddled underneath it.

Arthur chooses not to comment and enters the cell. “Can you do something about the weight? I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get him through the tunnels like this,” he asks as he drags Agravaine up and heaves him over his shoulder.

Merlin mutters something under his breath that’s too quiet for Arthur to make out, but his eyes turn golden once more, and at least half of the weight vanishes from Arthur’s shoulders.

He barely notices at first, too transfixed by the picture of Merlin, standing confident and eyes so very, very brilliant.

“I’m going to get the horses,” Merlin says, disappearing without waiting for an answer.

Arthur huffs and adjusts Agravaine’s weight over his shoulders. He makes sure to lock the cell again and quickly makes his way to the tunnels that’ll lead him to the Northern Gate.

Even with the lessened weight, it’s still slow-going, and Arthur keeps glancing over his shoulder. As much as his knights and guards are loyal to him, finding him freeing a prisoner from the dungeons is not something that he could just shrug off.

They do make it to the gates without a hitch though, and Merlin’s already waiting for them with three horses. They don’t talk as they secure Agravaine to one of them and mount themselves, setting off into the direction of Escetir.

It’s remarkably warm for a November night, and low-hanging clouds are obstructing any light the moon might’ve spent. As long as they’re on one of the main roads, it’s not too much of a problem, but when they have to enter the narrower paths of the forest, Arthur’s barely able to see his own hand.

“Can you do something about this?” he asks quietly, for some reason reluctant to disturb the rustling silence around them, and it should be strange to ask Merlin to do magic, but it’s just—not.

He doesn’t get an answer, but a few seconds later, three blue balls of light appear seemingly out of nowhere, the light within them twisting and swirling as they’re pulsing softly over their heads.

“Those—I’ve seen them before,” Arthur says, memories of a cave long ago resurfacing, and _of course_ it would’ve been Merlin.

Merlin twists in his saddle and smiles at him, lifting a hand and twirling one of the balls on his fingers. “I never figured out how I did it. I was unconscious and dying, but apparently, I just knew that you were in danger.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know how to breathe around his heart that has lodged itself firmly in his throat.

It has been years, but some nights, the question of who had been concerned enough for him, who, with magic, would care so damn much to save him as he was saving his first real friend, has come back to him.

The actual answer is bittersweet—because while something suspiciously like love wraps around his insides at the knowledge, it’s also just another proof of how much Merlin has done for him without ever receiving his due gratitude. How much Arthur has to be thankful for, and he’d never resent Merlin for this, doesn’t feel like it’s a debt he has to repay, but he never wanted him to carry such a burden.

With no idea how to voice any of this, they ride on in silence.

He’s not sure if it’s due to Merlin or some lasting streak of luck, but they eventually reach the border without running into trouble. Just before they’d leave Camelot, they stop in a clearing and dismount, leaving their horses to drink at the small stream and getting Agravaine down from the horse.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Arthur asks, one last time, as Merlin kneels next to Agravaine’s unmoving form.

Merlin’s expression twitches, reluctance bleeding through even while he tries hiding it. It’s comforting, to still be able to read him so easily. 

“You don’t have to,” Arthur says. He might loathe the idea of having to see the execution through, but he also doesn’t want to leave Merlin with more guilt to carry.

Where Merlin brushed him off the first few times they talked about this, he now meets Arthur’s eyes calmly. His face is cast in the shadows, and there’s a glint in his eyes that’s a weird mixture of resolve and resignation.

Arthur doesn’t like it.

“I’ve done far worse things, Arthur,” Merlin says, and that only worsens the dread coiling in Arthur’s stomach. “It will afford him to live, and it will keep the guilt off your shoulders.”

“And yours?” Arthur asks quietly, crouching down to meet Merlin’s eyes. “What about _your_ guilt, Merlin?”

Merlin stares at him for long moments, his lips parted slightly as if he didn’t expect Arthur to take his feelings into consideration. In the end, he sighs softly and shrugs. “I’d feel more guilty if he died, too.”

It sounds like an excuse, like salvation, but Arthur knows it’s true. This is only the lesser of two evils, and it will still weigh on both of them. But if they don’t want to send Agravaine right back to Morgana, with more knowledge than is good for anyone in Camelot, there’s no other way.

At least none that either of them came up with up until now, and they’re running out of time to contemplate alternatives.

“I don’t want you to regret it,” Arthur says. “I don’t want you to come to loathe me, for all the things you’ve had to do in my name.”

“I’d burn down the world for you if it meant keeping you safe and happy,” Merlin answers without a beat of hesitation, and it should terrify Arthur; all this power, all this devotion and loyalty that he’s only beginning to scrape the surface of. All he can think of is that he’d do the same.

He doesn’t voice any of this, but if Merlin’s soft smile is anything to go by, he already knows.

They stare at each other for long moments before Merlin draws a deep breath. “Alright?” he asks, and it’s one last chance to back out, one last opportunity to keep them both firmly on familiar ground, but Arthur has made up his mind days ago.

He had his time to mull things over, to replay the years Merlin has spent by his side, to inspect all the acts of unwavering loyalty Merlin has told him about, and all he found is an unwavering sense of rightness. A conviction singing in his blood as he fights, whispering in the recesses of his mind and the hollows between his ribs when he lies in bed, soothing and reassuring that this is how they’re supposed to be.

“Alright,” he says, and Merlin’s eyes turn gold.

When Agravaine wakes, Merlin and Arthur are watching from a few feet away. Their shoulders are pressed together, and their eyes carefully track Agravaine’s movements as he pulls himself into a sitting position.

“I’m—Arthur?” he asks, and there’s none of the bitter hostility left that has coated his voice earlier.

“Uncle,” Arthur answers, the word tasting foul in his mouth. “What do you remember?”

Agravaine’s brows knit together in obvious confusion. “I visited you for a few days, and I was on my way to return home. You insisted on accompanying me to the border.”

“We were attacked,” Arthur says slowly, the lie falling from his lips more easily than it should. “Morgana, I assume, but we managed to fight her men off. You took a hit to your head though.”

Agravaine’s expression clears, only for worry to write itself into the lines of his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” Arthur gets out. “But it may be better if you continued on your own. It’s not far to Tintagel, and I might draw too much attention.”

“Of course,” Agravaine agrees readily, getting to his feet. “A hit to the head, you say? I feel fine.”

“Merlin took care of it. You should be good to go.”

“Thank you,” Agravaine says, and it’s so sincere that Arthur can’t understand how he failed to see the deception all these months. “I think I might be going already. I wouldn’t want to put any of us into more danger.”

“Of course,” Arthur answers, crossing the distance to shake his uncle’s hand. “Maybe wait with another visit for the foreseeable future. We wouldn’t want Morgana to get the wrong idea and draw you into this whole mess.”

At the faintly relieved gleam in Agravaine’s eyes, it becomes clear that while a memory spell might’ve been cast, his uncle is still very much the same man.

“That’s a good point, Arthur. I’m sure you will be a great king.”

It’s very much a, _‘I don’t expect to see you for a very long time,’_ and Arthur’s more than fine with that even beyond the obvious reasons.

After Agravaine has taken his horse and left, the silence in the clearing shifts into awkwardness. It was easy to keep going as they used to when they had a clear goal. It’s always been like this—everything falling away when they had something to work towards, and the boundaries re-establishing themselves as soon as they’ve made it through.

Arthur refuses to let it happen this time.

“We should rest for a bit,” he says, walking over to Hengroen to take his bags from the saddle.

When he turns, Merlin’s watching him. “Are you sure? If we don’t make it back before dawn, it might raise a lot of questions.”

It’s true, but Arthur doesn’t care. “The ride isn’t long if we set a fast pace, and nobody’s going to question their King.”

Merlin’s lips twitch, and he turns away, starting to collect firewood.

When they’re sitting next to each other, Arthur can’t help but ask, “It’s safe, right? He won’t remember?”

“Yes, it’s safe,” Merlin says, endless patience to his tone. “He won’t remember his time at Camelot or his allegiance with Morgana, and he won’t feel any urge to plot against you again.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says because if there’s one thing he does less often than saying thank you, it’s apologizing.

Merlin squeezes his knee briefly and smiles, never taking his eyes off the fire in front of them.

The following silence is less uncomfortable, and Arthur’s muscles relax gradually, the tension of weeks slowly melting away at the familiarity of this. “I wish it were a clear winter night,” he finally says, and it’s more to himself than anything else, but Merlin hears him anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I just—feel like it? There’s something nice about the stillness of snow and ice and a cloudless night sky.”

He expects Merlin to laugh, to poke fun at him and tell him that the seasons don’t bow to the whims of kings, however great.

Instead, Merlin hums, glancing at him briefly before tipping his head back. A low, long string of words that Arthur has no hope of understanding spills past his lips, his voice low, and his eyes glow so very golden in the darkness.

The first thing that Arthur notices is the sudden cold. It creeps underneath his clothes and nestles itself into the spaces between his chainmail, biting into his skin as if it wants to make a home there.

Rustling leaves and the creaking of wood draw his attention away from himself, and he watches in disbelief as the grass around them wilts, a thin sheet of ice materializing over the ground, sparing only the spot where they’re sitting.

Something wet lands on his neck, and when he looks up, there are thick snowflakes drifting down, covering the ground around them faster than is natural.

And the sky is clear, not a single cloud in sight as the stars shine above them, washing the clearing in a white glow that’s mixing with the warm tones of the fire and wrapping around Arthur like a blanket.

It’s a freezing winter night with a clear sky, and Merlin smiles at him softly as his eyes return to their familiar blue. There’s a hesitance lurking behind it like he’s just waiting for Arthur to recoil from the—frankly staggering—display of magic.

“Did you just change the season for me, _Mer_ lin?”

Merlin’s broadening smile tells him that it’s the right thing to say, and he has to look away from the warmth of Merlin’s eyes, lest he does something stupid and impulsive.

The contentment is radiating off of Merlin, and when Arthur glances back at him, his eyes are bright and there’s a flush high on his cheeks. And Arthur finally understands that Merlin must've been waiting for this, to expose the beauty of his magic, the sheer vastness, how very breath-taking Merlin is in his own element.

Arthur hasn't given him a chance before now. All he asked of him was to manipulate Agravaine’s mind, and it's been obvious every step of the way how much Merlin loathed doing it. This, though, this is so very _right_ that there’s no doubt about how it’s Merlin's purpose. Creating, crafting, moulding the world into something even more beautiful. And he's laying it all at Arthur's feet.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Merlin quips, but his voice is wavering slightly and he tips his head back. “Did your various tutors teach you about the constellations?”

They did, or at least they tried to. Arthur doesn’t remember much beyond the information that appeared useful in case he ever had to travel during the night. “Some of it,” he allows, glancing at Merlin. “Why?”

Merlin’s still smiling softly, but he shrugs. “Gaius has been teaching me. I like some of the stories behind them.”

His tone very much suggests that he expects Arthur to make fun of him, but he can’t bring himself to. There’s something ethereal about this, something sacred that he doesn’t dare disturb. It’s been so long since they had such a quiet, peaceful moment between them, and for once, Arthur doesn’t feel the need to dispel it to keep up a façade.

“Tell me?” he asks, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the sky above them even as Merlin’s gaze is heavy on his skin.

After a beat or two, Merlin hums, lifting a hand. “Well, there’s the Leo constellation, do you see it?”

Arthur’s not even lying as he shakes his head; as far as he’s concerned, it’s all a bunch of sprinkled lights. Pretty, without question, and some are brighter than the others, but he never got the attempt of seeing images among them.

Merlin huffs. “There, to the west, don’t you see?“

When Arthur says, “Still no,” he goes silent for a bit, and Arthur nearly regrets not simply agreeing. But then Merlin opens his hand, his palm facing upwards, and his eyes turn golden once more.

It takes more effort than it should to tear his eyes away from Merlin’s face and follow his line of sight when he makes a satisfied noise in the back of the throat.

When he does, all the air leaves his lungs in a rush, and he stares in wonder at the thin, twinkling thread of gold that has appeared in the west, connecting a small number of stars and painting the picture he’s never been able to see.

“Better?” Merlin asks quietly, and Arthur swallows as he looks over at him.

“Why do you like it?” Arthur asks, and if his voice comes out choked, Merlin’s graceful enough not to point it out.

A flush sprawls over Merlin’s cheeks, and he keeps his gaze on the sky above them. Arthur can’t decide what he wants to look at more.

“It reminds me of you,” Merlin says, attempting nonchalance and missing by a mile. “The great lion, with his brightest star named Regulus, meaning prince or little king. It suits you.”

“You’re such a sap,” Arthur murmurs, but it comes out so fond that Merlin merely grins at him. “Which one would be you, then?” he asks, mostly to distract himself from the overbearing urge to reach out, to trace the happiness on Merlin’s face and promise him anything he could possibly ask for.

Merlin laughs softly and raises his hand again, more lines appearing in the sky. “Draco, as cliché as that may sound. Though if we’re talking stars, I’d obviously be Sirius as it is the brightest of them all, and I’m _clearly_ the brighter one between the two of us.”

The laughter bursts out of Arthur unexpectedly, and he pulls Merlin into a headlock. “That would also make you part of the dog-constellation though, wouldn’t it? A bit of a leap from a dragon, _Mer_ lin.”

He’s shoved away, but Merlin’s laughing too, his breath fogging in the freezing air. “You’re such a prat,” he says, but he bumps their shoulders together, and this time, Arthur doesn’t stop himself from wrapping an arm around him and pulling him against his side.

“Are we the only ones who can see this?” he asks after a while, his eyes still tracing the stars. He won’t ever be able to look at them the same again, and it fills him with such warmth that it blends out the biting cold around them.

“I have no idea, really,” Merlin says, shrugging against his side, and when Arthur glances down at him, there’s a sheepish grin curling his lips.

Arthur wants to kiss it off his face, wants to wrap him into a hug and preserve them like this, here, in a clearing somewhere on the border to Escetir where nothing but the two of them matters.

“Only you, Merlin,” he says instead, knocking their heads together lightly.

As much as he wants to forget about everything else, there are still so many things they need to talk about. Not now though, not in these few hours that belong to them alone, and so he just soaks in Merlin’s warmth at his side, watching in awe as Merlin illuminates the sky for him and tells stories about heroes and gods.

* * *

They arrive back in Camelot just as the first rays of light teeter over the horizon. By some miracle, they make it back to Arthur’s chambers without anyone crossing their way.

Both of them drop into chairs as soon as the door is locked behind them, the lack of sleep and hours of riding catching up on them.

“I’m going to cancel everything today,” Arthur says, pouring a goblet of wine for both of them. “Then we’re going to catch a few hours of sleep, and after that, we could…” He trails off, the lightness of earlier evaporating, and he glances at Merlin from underneath his lashes.

This strange apprehension to finally talk about all the things that have to be said is ridiculous, Arthur knows; if one thing has become obvious over the last few days, it’s how Merlin’s still very much the same person. He’s still an impulsive, compassionate, loyal idiot with a heart too big for his own good. He still stumbles over his own feet and lets his mouth run away from him and has an unhealthy tendency to throw himself into harm’s way.

He’s just also able to bend the world to his will, to give Arthur a starry winter night and paint stories out of stars, and it only makes Arthur love him more.

It should scare him, maybe, how ready he is to disregard everything he thought he knew. Then again, how could he possibly believe that magic corrupts if he has seen the unadulterated happiness on Merlin’s face as he lets it dance over his fingertips simply for the joy of it?

“And then we could talk,” Merlin finishes for him.

He swallows, tapping his ring against his goblet, and takes a deep breath. “We’re going to be alright.”

Merlin smiles weakly, and it sends a pang through Arthur’s chest how he doesn’t seem to completely believe it either.

“You know I forgave you the moment you told me, right?” he asks quietly because it’s the truth; it was never about forgiveness and surely, Merlin knows this, _has_ to know this. Has to know that there’s barely anything he could do that Arthur wouldn’t yield to. 

“Yeah, I know,” Merlin says after a moment, but he doesn’t sound as sure as Arthur would’ve liked. “But I still wish that I never had to lie to you in the first place.”

Before Arthur can answer, there’s a sharp knock on the door, and they both jump. A quick glance towards the window reveals the sun to be climbing over Camelot’s walls, and Arthur grimaces.

“Go and get some sleep,” he says to Merlin, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll deal with the fallout.”

Merlin seems ready to protest, but when he gets up, he’s swaying on his feet, and it’s clearly enough to make up his mind. “I’ll bring you dinner tonight. You should get some sleep too, don’t run yourself ragged.”

“Sire?” Leon’s voice sounds from the other side of the door, and Arthur waves Merlin off.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmurs, pushing Merlin into the direction of the door. “What is it, Leon?” he adds when he pulls it open, shoving Merlin through before focusing on Leon and Elyan.

“Sire,” Leon starts, glancing briefly at Merlin who’s making his way down the corridor remarkably slowly. “It seems like Agravaine has managed to escape the dungeons.”

Arthur had enough time to contemplate how he’d react if this was an actual surprise, but he’s never been any good at straight-out lying. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and searches for the right words.

“We’re going to send out patrols, of course,” Elyan adds.

“Neither of you was on duty, so it’s not your fault. In fact, I’m rather sure that Morgana has her hand in this. There’s most likely a magical way to keep track of some things, so there’s no use in punishing anyone.”

Leon’s pained expression doesn’t budge though, and gods, Arthur just wants to go to bed. “Don’t send out patrols. I doubt you’d find a trail, and—“

“But Sire—“

“Just—let him run. He’s not of much use to Morgana if he doesn’t have any information to pass on, is he?” Arthur interrupts because if one takes Merlin out of the equation, it’s true enough.

Hell, even if Morgana found Agravaine and convinced him to help her once more, Arthur has enough confidence in Merlin’s magic—and isn’t that something he never expected to think—to not be too worried. His uncle’s only assets are mediocre skills with a sword, and maybe a roof over the head. Not exactly useful enough for Morgana to put up with if Arthur has ever known anything about her.

“If you’re sure,” Leon says, but the doubt has abandoned his voice, replaced by just the right amount of compassion to not be crossing a line.

“I am,” Arthur says, biting down on a small smile. It’s not as if he enjoys the idea of lying to his knights or his court, but the relief and wonder are still outweighing everything else. “But I’m going to take the day off. I didn’t catch much sleep last night, and as there’s no execution for me to oversee, I think I might catch up on some paperwork.”

Leon’s eyes narrow the slightest amount, barely noticeable but enough for Arthur to know that he’s on thin ice, and he shrugs. “I’ll see you tomorrow for training, bright and early,” he says, and then shuts the door in their faces before they can get the idea of asking any more questions. Maybe his father did have a point in not tolerating these kinds of liberties.

Then again, Arthur _really_ doesn’t want to be like his father anymore, and that thought sends another wave of exhaustion through his body.

When he’s sure that Leon and Elyan have left, he informs the guards to not let anyone into his chambers except for Merlin and then drops into bed.

* * *

Arthur wakes up to a hand on his shoulder, and Merlin’s soft smile hovering above him. The lights in his chambers are dim, flickering candlelight dancing over the walls, and there’s still a distinctive feeling of having been run over by a horse.

He groans and buries deeper into his sheets, glancing up at Merlin through bleary eyes. “I’m not getting up.”

Merlin snorts, but Arthur’s distracted from answering when something moves underneath Merlin’s jacket.

It wakes him up a little more, and he props himself up on one elbow, narrowing his eyes. “What do you have there?” he asks, voice low, raising a brow when Merlin averts his gaze and chews on his bottom lip. “ _Mer_ lin.”

For long moments, they just stare at each other, and then Merlin sighs. “Don’t flip out, alright?” he asks, and Arthur wants to give an indignant reply, but it gets stuck in his throat when Merlin reaches underneath his jacket and reveals a small, white creature that’s chirping excitedly.

“Is that a _dragon_?” he gets out, and it comes out much higher than intended, but well, _there’s a dragon in his chambers_ and he thinks a bit of shock is rather justified.

Unfortunately, Merlin doesn’t seem inclined to agree. He merely rolls his eyes and strokes its head. “This is Aithusa. She hatched a little over two months ago and honestly, she’s harmless. She can’t even breathe fire yet, not to mention that I can, you know, control her.”

“I’m still not getting up,” Arthur says after a beat, eyeing the dragon warily. “Also, are you telling me that you strolled through the castle with a dragon under your jacket?”

Merlin’s expression turns sheepish, and it would figure that _that’s_ what gets him to blush.

“Oh, for the goddess sake, get in here,” Arthur growls, scooting over to the other side of the bed. Merlin’s eyes widen and the blush impossibly darkens. “To _talk_ , you absolute idiot. I’m going to trust you on the dragon not burning down my chambers, which doesn’t mean that I won’t have you pay if it actually does.”

“Her name’s Aithusa,” Merlin grumbles, but he does actually sit down on the bed, kicking off his boots and scooting up until he’s leaning against the headboard. Aithusa curls up in his lap, but her eyes are fixed on Arthur. If he were inclined to assign human expressions to dragons—however small—he’d actually call her gaze curious.

Arthur swallows, awkwardness creeping back into the space between them. “Could you,” he starts, only for his voice to come out rough. He clears his throat and draws a breath, the request sitting heavy on his tongue. “Could you let stars appear here as well?”

As soon as the words are past his lips, embarrassment floods him. Merlin probably can, but what kind of king asks for a night sky in his chambers like some small child scared of the dark?

Merlin’s lips part though, and he stares at Arthur for a beat too long before he smiles. A second later, the canopy of the bed is replaced by a perfect replica of the night sky, some of the constellations connected by golden threads.

“You know, it’s funny. Both the Nemean Lion, and the dragon Ladon, the Greek origins of Leo and Draco, are said to have been defeated by Heracles,” Merlin says softly, staring up at the vastness above them. It makes Arthur’s head spin to look at it. “Then again, I always said I’d die at your side. I also like to think that we could take it up with some glorified Greek demigod if it came right down to it.”

“Of course you would,” Arthur says with a grin, though if he’s honest, he rather agrees; somehow, anything feels possible with Merlin next to him.

Turning sober, he cranes his neck to look at Merlin. “Tell me? Tell me about your father and your dragon. About—about Morgana, and myself, and all the things you’ve done for Camelot. For _me_.”

Aithusa stumbles off Merlin’s lap and curls up between them, and Merlin’s hand follows her.

Eventually, Merlin starts talking. How he found out about his father and lost him within two days, about being a Dragonlord and the last dragon egg and Aithusa. He speaks of the great dragon’s attack on Camelot and how he spared him, of how he both tried to help and to kill Morgana, of her plans and how he spoiled all of them. How he saved Uther and Arthur and Gaius and everyone in Camelot countless times.

He speaks about Lancelot and a girl named Freya, his voice heavy with grief. It turns hard again when he recalls nameless assassins and Morgause, Cornelius Sigan and Alined and Sophia and Nimueh.

Arthur doesn’t interrupt. It’s not easy—at times, he has to fight the urge to jump up and smash something. At others, to pull Merlin into a hug and never let go again, terrified at how close he’s come to losing Merlin without even knowing it.

When Merlin falls silent, the first grey of morning is filtering past the blinds, and Aithusa has long since fallen asleep at the end of the bed.

They’re lying next to each other, and when Arthur turns his head to look at Merlin, exhaustion is carved into every line of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, but Merlin stares back at him and smiles weakly. There are a hundred things Arthur could say, but somehow, he thinks Merlin knows most of them.

Most of them but one, and he reaches out, curling his fingers around Merlin’s hand. “I’m going to lift the ban. Tomorrow, we’ll start.”

Merlin’s eyes are bright in the dim light, and Arthur can see him swallow several times.

He rolls onto his side and shifts closer. “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispers, leaning in, letting his lips brush against Merlin’s. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his chest too tight to contain the magnitude of love that wants to pour out.

Before he can draw away, can question if he’s misinterpreted or if it’s the wrong moment, Merlin’s fingers curl into the front of his tunic, and his mouth finds Arthur’s again. His lips are soft, and a shiver races down Arthur’s spine as Merlin’s tongue runs along his bottom lip.

Arthur’s head is spinning, lightness washing over him, and he can do nothing but clench his fingers into Merlin’s waist and hold on. Can do nothing but press closer, deepening the kiss and letting himself be wrapped into all of it; to cling on tightly and pray that he’s always going to have this because he has never felt like this. Like he could take on every single Greek god and make it out on top as long as he’s only allowed to keep this.

“I never thought I’d get to—“ Merlin murmurs against his lips, and there’s a frantic undercurrent to it that resonates through Arthur’s chest and leaves him breathless.

“Idiot,” Arthur whispers into the minuscule space between them because some things simply cannot be helped. “ _Anything_ ,” he vows, pulling back just far enough to meet Merlin’s eyes. “I’d do anything for you. Lift the ban, let dragons sleep in my bed, give up my crown and my kingdom if only it made you happy.”

As Merlin cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair and slots their mouths back together, he finds that he really doesn’t mind.

* * *

The lifting of the ban takes weeks, and Arthur’s patience runs thin after the first. It’s a seemingly endless stream of learning about magic, council sessions, drawing up and implementing plans to secure the acceptance among Camelot’s citizens, and restructuring the court.

As much as it’s a tedious process at times, it also affords him and Merlin to spend even more time together. Somewhere along the way of brooding over laws and magical theory, their dynamics shift, and Arthur knows that it’s a good thing.

His impatience stems less from the process in general. While he may be the King, one who admittedly cares very little for traditions at times, he does know strategy.

Implementing such a change only months after he started his reign is a risky undertaking, and it’s for this reason that he and Merlin decided to keep the shift in their relationship to themselves until the ban is lifted.

No matter how many moments they snatch away at any given time of the day, Arthur’s tired of it. He spent so many years hiding what Merlin is to him, and for all intents and purposes, it shouldn’t matter to do it for just a little longer.

It does though, and he knows that Merlin feels it too. Truth be told, it’s a miracle that no one but Gwaine and Gaius found them out yet, especially after Merlin told their closest friends about his magic.

In the end, it’s all worth it though.

The official announcement of the new laws falls on the day of the turning of the years, and Arthur’s heart is racing in his throat as he stands on the balcony over the courtyard.

His knights are standing proud behind him as he holds his speech about the new legislation and the reparations Camelot will offer. Gaius’ expression speaks of relief so deep, Arthur has no hope of ever understanding it, and even Gwen has returned for the occasion, standing next to Gaius, huddled in her cloak and smiling.

“I hereby declare as Court Sorcerer, Merlin of Ealdor, son of Hunith and Balinor and the last of the Dragonlords.”

Merlin steps up next to him, the smallest smile curling the corner of his mouth, the one solely reserved for Arthur, and their hands find each other blindly.

After a beat of stunned silence, a cheer travels through the crowd underneath them. Merlin’s face breaks into a bright grin, and Arthur finds himself drunk on the happiness that’s radiating off of him, finds himself vowing to do whatever it takes to keep it there for the rest of their lives.

There’s a small, harmless show of lights and creatures conjured out of smoke, all of it whimsical enough to not scare anyone off. A feast and dancing and endless amounts of food and alcohol follow, but Arthur barely processes any of it.

When finally, _finally_ everyone in attendance is far enough into their cups to not notice the absence of the King and the guest of honour, Arthur leans in close to Merlin. “What do you think about sneaking out of the castle and having a warm, cloudless summer night for a change?”

Merlin laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his cheeks dimpling. He brushes his lips against Arthur’s temple and takes his hand, pulling him to his feet. “A starry summer night it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ❤️


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